I'm not saying I don't think about you, because I do.
i check my phone every morning
to see if you were drunk enough to text me;
I'm just saying, I think more about what you might be thinking
than I do of who you are.

don't get me wrong, things have changed.
you say sweet things to me now,
without the help of a clumsy tongue
or an empty bottle... or ten,
but I still can't wrap my mind around the idea
that you enjoy the taste of my lips
as much as you enjoy the sound of another drink.

you hold me like a glass
but you've never devoured me;
it's like a preference of white over red wine;
I look clear enough for you to think I'm empty,
and I'm not bitter enough to make you feel my presence.

I just wish you would indulge in me like you do the alcohol;
why can't you see that I too hold stories worth hearing;
if I can't cloud your brain, or make you stumble,
slur your words, and make you crumble;

than maybe I'm not your glass of wine,
rather I'm the wine itself;
drink me up,
I'll be nothing but a memory in the morning.

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