last time

The glass sat on the counter, waiting

His mind flipped through the past, crying His mother rejected him every time she thought of him He put the glass down My mother rejected him because of who he became He put the glass down She rejected him every time He put his glass down

I rejected him The last one down

The glass stayed on that table,

With droplets of ice racing from the tip of the glass,

To the edge of the table,

How does one stop breathing?

Did he even comprehend that,

He may never again

Drink another sip of that drink?

The lack of conversation and connection

The feelings and desires, mostly empty,

Make him feel wasted, more than any alcohol could make him

His breathing might be easy now, but it gets worse.

You know it gets worse.

It always does.

Stopped by a friend's house Made an attempt to repent

Of course it did not yield a result.

It never has and never will.

How late is too late?

Past the knock on the death's door? Stopped by the restaurant In his drunken stupor

Stumbling here and there,

Feeling? Wishing? Praying? Fearing?

Or perhaps never realising this was the end.

White plastic bag in hand, Made his way up the dusty stairs,

Those stairs that he found minimal comfort in

Those very stairs that made his breathing a little harder, Each step a promising reminder of exactly what His life had denied him

The specific love that only that glass provided​ him One step into the room One look at the bottles One glance at the bed One turn of the lock One thought of that past One dream

Wonder of a child, Fourteen, If he never saw anyone again

Why were his eyes open? In his immovable state