An empty glass is like a full box of tissues. 

Both are fixtures on her nightstand,

Reflections of her never-changing life. 

But one day, the tissue box is empty. 

Discarded tissues line the ground.

A glass of hot tea by her side 

As she struggles to fight off sickness. 

The tissue box is empty. 

Crumpled tissues in the trash soaked in tears.

A glass of champagne in her hand 

As she mourns lost love.

The tissue box is empty. 

Tear-soaked tissues line the bed.

A glass of wine ready 

As she fails to forget her struggles. 

The glass shatters, 

Water spilling onto the floor. 

But the tissue box is untouched. 

There’s no one left to clean up.