A delicate Wineglass am I;

Frail, easy to break.

My darling, he is The Shelf beneath me,

Supporting me, keeping me from falling.

Sadly, he has fallen ill.

I spend my time at his bedside,

Clinging to what I have left of him,

Like a child clings to their mother.

Every day he is a new shade of white:

Pale, porcelain, pearl.

Saying "goodbye" is difficult,

Increasingly more each night.

Sleep is impossible.

My eyelids are heavy,

Each limb weighs a ton.

The hospital ride seems longer than usual.

The nurses and doctors are acting strange.

Little did I know that it was because,

The Shelf had given way.

The pain of losing him is a shard of icy glass to the heart.

My pieces are small and many,

But I will piece myself together,

I will become as strong as stone.

Yet my pain will be as obvious

As the cracks in the glass.