There’s a piece of robust glass in my chest where you used to live all see through clearly and sweetly.
It juts out obviously and none discreetly.
Like how you filled me.
Cut deeply and all briefly.
It’s strange this optical illusion of my reflected expression.
I wish I could taste the whisky to dull the pain which resides in like fragmented lies.
Fermented rope and throated side lines.
Love doesn’t burn.
In the memory of your shadow I wait for the night to pass.
Until then, I nurse this robust glass.
© G.P Williamson 2018 <– hit for Instagram!