Empty beer cans punctuate our union now
They are real but their metaphor mocks me
I don’t remember when I started
Counting them full
Counting them empty
Every night
counting them has become
my obsession
Each full can a warning
Each empty can like a stone on a plumb line
Weighting my heart
Dragging it spiralling down
Every night it sinks
Plummeting until it nestles with the eggshells scattered on my floors
Oct 3, 2020
Oct 3, 2020 at 10:00 AM UTC
Empty beer cans punctuate our union now
They are real but their metaphor mocks me
I don’t remember when I started
Counting them full
Counting them empty
Every night
counting them has become
my obsession
Each full can a warning
Each empty can like a stone on a plumb line
Weighting my heart
Dragging it spiralling down
Every night it sinks
Plummeting until it nestles with the eggshells scattered on my floors
The reality of obsessing about an obsessor.
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