Night Calls from an Empty Glass

The corner store flickers neon, a broken pulse

in the rain-slick street.

A cracked bottle nestles in the gutter mud,

its label peeling slow like skin off old regrets.

I pass twice tonight, chasing a ghost

that smells of cheap vodka and stale promises.

The neon mocks me —

a faded sign blinking a cruel joke I’m too tired to laugh at.

Each step weighs heavier, like dragging a chain

made of empty bottles clinking soft in the dark.