When the Bottle’s Half Gone

by MissT

Author’s note:
Some loves only show their warmth when the bottle’s half gone.
This isn’t a poem about blame — it’s about the ache of loving someone who shines and disappears in the same breath.

He tells me I’m beautiful
when the bottle’s half gone,
his voice loose and low,
like the man I first met
has climbed back into his skin.

He laughs easier then,
pulls me close,
calls me darling like he means it.
For a few hours,
the world feels warm again,
and I pretend we’re safe.

But morning always finds us
the silence, the ache,
the love that only breathes
through whiskey fumes.

I’ve loved two versions of him
the one the drink creates,
and the one it steals.
And I can’t tell anymore
which one misses me
when the glass runs dry.