The Last Piece

He called last night,

the same slurry of apology,

the same broken vow

about trying harder.

And it hit me, clean and sharp,

I didn't have another piece of advice

left in me.

No new angle, no clever word.

This morning, his bottle sits there,

half-empty on the counter,

a condensation ring

darkening the cheap laminate.

The amber liquid catches the light,

still and silent,

and I just look.

The urge to fix,

finally,

gone.