That glass of wine.
Zinfandel.
Cabernet perhaps.
Too rich to be a Merlot.
The final glass, I watched him pour it, the label turned from me.
He handed it to me hastily.
I watched it plummet to the ground between us.
Anticipating the sound.
The destruction upon impact.
I embraced it.
It was in spite of everything,
a metaphor for our existance,
our commitment to one another.
The carelessness in which he handled the wine,
was the same manner in which he recklessly handled my heart.
My body.
My love.
As the glass shattered,
I smiled.
And walked out the door.
Wow, that is beautiful. I can feel the closure in your words.
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