At the bottom of my glass lie the dregs of disappointment.
Sad to have drained the rest, regretting the first sip.
Drowned in a feeling, bursting through the surface to sleep
A gentle breath on the other side, such consolation
If it were full, half drunk or empty it didn’t kill us
And the rhythm of my wheezing breath
Tears its way out of heaving lungs
Through acid scorched throat
Into a stuffy room made good
By a gentle sleeping thing.