The wine sits. And it breathes.
I am not still. My breath is not captured by you.
So you let it stir.
But I am not shaken.
Your hands still hold the slender glass, but the glass
is not my wrist.
But both can crack.
So let go, let go, let go.
And oh,
Don't step in the puddle on your way out.
-sonja lynn mata
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