When The Glass Water Bottle Spoke

I see all the plastic bottles filled and shiny,
pasted labels over clear water within. I’ve

never been jealous of that crinkle sound,
sad little ache after the last drop is gone.

Always wondered what disposable meant,
dented, crushed, twisted, one on top of the

next, in bins, trashcans, on streets. Others
tossed off boats, or tide taken away from sand

into sea. Gulped by curious pelicans hungry
for more than digestive death.

Me, I like lips that touch my rim again and
again, tender sips when I’m brimming with cool

life-giving liquid. But I’m a romantic, I believe
in everlasting love, that you will want me forever.

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