Bottom of the Bottle

I'm sitting here,
just staring at the last drops in the bottle.
There's only a few left,
barely enough to cover the bottom of the glass.
Just enough to coat my throat,
a burning that slowly drips its way down.
The heat finally loosens the knot,
the dark, hard lump of pain I've been drinking away.
I reach across the table, pouring myself another from a fresh bottle.
Each sip burns a scar,
branding my heart with the same pain I drown in.
One sip for each heartache,
a salute to every tear I've cried.
One more for that smile,
charming, childish, and captivating every single time.
Another for that laugh,
that warm, enticing sound that haunts me.
Hell, here's one for those eyes,
stormy skies, and grey clouds with silver linings.
Add another for that skin,
tasting of summer dew and smelling like rain.
A thousand thoughts of love,
burned into my heart and drowning me in hurt.
A few more sips,
just a few more, and it won't hurt anymore, right?
I just want it to go away,
one more should do it,
chase that ghost away, and dull the laughter.
It's not really making it go away,
it'll be waiting for me when I sober up.
Another glass, just one more,
back to the bottom of the bottle again.
One drop left for each tear,
falling down my cheeks and mixing in the glass.
Now I'm just sitting here,
staring at the bottom of the bottle.
A few drops swirling, dancing;
I stand up and walk a way.
There's a few drops, just a few left in the bottle,
a few tears left to cry.

Natalie Gibson (c) 2005

*Dedicated to someone .. to a broken heart that was dead, then beat, then died again*