The Slow Pour

The jar's almost dead, a sticky tomb.

I turn it upside down, against the gloom

of my own slow-moving day.

Just let it drop, I pray.

A ribbon thick and dark, it pulls

itself out, fighting gravity's rules.

Like certain loves, or bad advice,

it clings to the spoon, precise

in its unwillingness to break clean.

Sweet, sure. But the effort, the obscene

patience it demands. A thread stretches thin,

almost snaps. A sigh from deep within.

Some decisions just keep pulling on,

long after the feeling's gone.