Bittersweet Syrup

The brown bottle glimmered, its label all torn,

a relic of sickness from days I’d forlorn.

I remember that taste, syrup thick like regret,

the way it’d cling sweet, then leave me upset.

A spoonful of sorrow, the kitchen’s dim light,

memories wrestle, they twist in my sight.

I think of the ocean, that salt on my tongue,

and wonder if healing means more when it’s sung.