Dried up

 

The ceramic is bound so that it seems to mould, clutching my fist…

I squeeze the life out of it, like there is nothing left…

And there isn’t…

The alcohol has dried up its merry sweetness left in another time…

The blood in my veins has slowed to a steady pump…

And I clutch this ceramic mug as though its glass…

It needs to be… in order for me to feel…

To feel as fragile as the broken bird I was before I could fly.

For a moment I see another liquid and

I can faintly see the broken bird on the sill behind me…

but I look forward at the night sky and pick up my pen.