At The Bottom Of Me

Just a longing,
And the ever-present emptiness,
Of me missing you…

And one last chance,
For completeness…

And finality.

Just a surety of forever
With you,

For which
I await.

But tonight,
Here I sit.

Neither clarity,
Nor comfort,
Are present.

Just another repeat,
Of a recycled resistance
That I half-heartedly
Offer,

To an unwilling reality.

The writing,
Normally,
Would release
The demons of disappointment.

But not tonight.

All I envision,

All I sense,

Is your fingertip tracing
A path of redemption,
And satisfaction,
Across my bare chest.

Normally,
My strength,
And perseverance
Would kick in,
Now.

But not
Tonight.

In this moment,
I succumb,

Succumb
To memories,
And missed opportunities,
To serve,

And complete,

You.

So here I sit.

Here I think.

Here I bleed,

Understanding
That I failed,

Failed

To

Love

You.

All that’s left,

Is me,

Staring at this screen,
Blinking cursor,

And empty glass.

At the bottom
Of my drink…

At the bottom

Of me.

 

 

 

© 2018 W. C. Stacia, Jr.

12 thoughts on “At The Bottom Of Me

  1. No seriously! You should see the pile of socks on my floor in which my cat now calls a luxury bed!! And I am a clean freak. Ha! Ha! again. 🙂 I do believe that their are indeed a lot of ladies with the same identical pile, minus ‘MY’ cat! Thank you Bill.

    Liked by 1 person

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