At the bottom of a Glass 

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. 

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