A Bottle
I have written this letter hundreds of times. Never sent.
I don’t know where the line is between when I should just suck it up and keep going and when it’s time to complain. I don’t know why those two things are seen as mutually exclusive. I’m soldiering on after many vocal complaints. Both can exist, I think.
The drag of the drawer
The twist of the cap
The clink of the ice
against the glass.
A better feeling than the sounds of today’s past.