More so now than not
I glance forward and back.

Not at the sequential morning.
Back to you and I and he

Mourning our cynical place,
He is not known to you, or to I.

Place torn away with regret, but never remorse.

I do not sleep for fear alone.
A lonely, lovely intrigued chamber of Death.

Alone in our chamber of lost things and letters
Death, it seems, will take me broken and shattered.

Letters catch my eye, not on paper but on the floor,
Shattered among the wine glasses.

Floors not stepped on, to an emptiness-and
Glasses cannot help my weary eyes from tearing.

And to the slamming of doors and screams!
Tearing of a love long past alive.

(Screams), and then, silence eerily drunk
Alive, but only just, I tip this wonderful wine.

Drunk, I come to a realization, much to my surprise…

Wine does not bottle up that which does not fit.