The first crack in the glass,

allowed the wine to seep out like dew against it's rigidness,

but only a drop fell on the table,

for you can still drink our wine,

with only losing small puddles with every gulp.

I used to watch you drink,

slow swallows that recoginzed every flavor before you,

but now I can only see what spills,

for I value every small drop,

and you only drink to be drunk.

Our wine was once made with love,

tenderness straight from the cup and aged with sweetness,

but maybe we drank too soon,

for now it's bitter,

with undertones of sour and salt.

One crack lead to two, two into twenty,

until our wine glass fell into pieces,

but I desperately try to gather it all,

for I am scooping spilled wine into red stained hands,

with stained white carpets.

For I miss the first crack.