I'm keeping the last drop in the drawer
Beside me inside my bedside table
Where once both of our things littered
Atop that cheap Ikea wrongly assembled
Square that posed as a treasure chest
And doubled as dining table and trash can

The last drop of romantic feelings
That weren't dead on impact upon
The drunken uselessly endless aggressive
Words spat sitting at the kitchen table
Where I was fighting to be numb
And you were fighting to be loved

When I'm healthy enough to gear out of
Autopilot and back into attempting to try
Accepting the rush of human experience
I can put that drop under microscope
And get experimental with how to love
Without purposely trying to drown myself