Content – a poem.

Grapes; sunshine in the middle of June.

Sweet memories of what was, is now lost. Empty.

Cheese; gathering groceries in a basket. Spare change in the back-pocket. Heavy bags.

Wine; sad, lonely nights on the balcony.

Cigarettes, regrets and agony. Heavy night.

Plates; ecstasy and rage. I bought the prettiest tea set – and I smashed the saucers into the wall. Pain.

Glasses; expensive, seldom touched. So, why bother? To prove that it was with something. To prove that it was worth anything.

I drink the wine out of a random mug.

Meaning attached to objects is a figment of the imagination, anyway. Like love being attached to a person who can never fill the void again.

An empty home with everything in it.

Yes, I have filled it with false abundance.

I have filled it with ornaments, with paintings and extravagant mirrors. I don’t pay attention to any of them, anymore.

Yes, I clean the floors.

I dust my trinkets, and move the furniture – it is never to my taste,

I must buy more to fill the space.

The space is never filled enough. Like the space in my heart that used to feel.

This home, like me, feels like nothing is in it.

My plate is full, my stomach should be satisfied.

So, what is it, then?

This green envy,

Inside of me?

Why am I not happy?