| Fragments Your glass, smelling of brandy, trembling in your hand, is dripping, staining your priceless oriental rug. I say nothing. I'm washing the dishes, a sink full of suds. Trying to scrub your glass clean. But the smell lingers like your cologne on my pillow. I lie in bed next to you. My legs are bare and goose-pimpled. My toes are purple, while yours are snuggled in warmth. I say nothing. Coffee is brewing, turning the water brown and filling the air with tension and caffeine. Your voice pierces the silent sputtering and pulls me into your stare. Your glass, smelling of brandy, trembling in your hand, is thrown. Giving us both seven years' bad luck. As I see the fragments of my life with you and your brandy staining my soul, I look at my face, broken and bruised in the shattered glass. |