We stayed up late one night.

Late for nothing

but bed.

We talked about this

talked about that.

Happy about this,

sad about that.

She passed the wine

to me, dripping down

the neck, onto my fingers

as I pulled another

mouthful of drips

from its body.

“What do you see your heart as?”

she asked, like it was a plan.

Like, ‘what are we doing tomorrow

and the tomorrow after that?’

I thought from the bottle,

watching the wine drip

and slowly dry.

“A battery” I said.

She smiled for a second,

And then let that drip, too.

I passed the bottle.

She drank again, a little more.

I could feel the red

making its way

around my battery,

dripping inside.

We looked at one


In the warm darkened glow,

from the candle

on the floor.

Dripping too,

flickering still.

Keeping us in sight

of one,

of another.

She looked sad.

Maybe I did too.

“Like a cheap AAA battery” I said again,

for some reason.

I reached for the bottle.

I took it from her.

I saw that red wine on my fingers

from those drips from the neck,

that came from the body.

And dried.

“Don’t say that” she said.

She reached for my hand,

with the drips all dried.

I held the bottle tight.

Gripping its neck.

She changed the subject

to something.

Something far away

from hearts

and batteries

and wine

and drips.

But I kept thinking

about how we drip

and dry

until there’s nothing left.

Nothing but that sour taste

From the holes in the battery

that dripped

every drop

and stopped

one day,

without warning.

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4 thoughts on “Drip

  1. I’m so glad that I’ve stumbled across your page. I think this is beautiful and I love the structure.

  2. Jessica says:

    Really nice, Ross! I like this.

  3. Hannah says:

    melancholia and lilac wine – a perfect combination 🙂

  4. Asta Mică says:

    interesting moment u’ve captured there.. and besides that, it sounds good even though it doesn’t rhyme.. i must admit i’m totally incapable of writing “rhymeless” poems;))

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