Glass of Water

Stilled from inactivity,
lying on the bed.
A glass of water at my bedside,
the only reminder
            I wasn’t dead.

Its grace in opposition with the person I once was
Unable to touch it,
watch the wavelets dance around
or feel droplets tickle my tongue.

Alcohol, my foe,
Seduced taste buds, numbed limbs,
before I saw the headlights,
            ultimately punishing my sins.

Now my body betrays all contact—
marred by stupidity.
A piece of meat left to rot,
            until the Grim Reaper prods me along.

So I stare at the glass of water,
weightless and free,
hoping tomorrow is the day
            I control my destiny.

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