It is funny how sometimes
blood is just blood.
There is nothing poetic
about crimson on bedsheets
at three in the morning.

Hands unsteady like
elm trees before a summer storm
grasp for that which is no longer there.
How quickly than do bottles turn to hands
when recovery can only be found in forgetting.

I have learnt there is no glory
in trying to resurrect the very
thing which I, myself killed.
Maybe sorrow is something
some of us have to carry.

Though lately it has become harder
to carry that which is mine to carry.
So now I wonder if I were to let it go,
would they notice?
Would it matter?