Wind echoes across the hollow pit.
It makes an odd humming sound,
long forgotten or misplaced chords,
like someone blowing air across
an empty bottle top,
the rounded glass surface turned into crystal
for a second in suspended eternity
by the sun’s harsh rays.
It was once just as full as I,
just as useful.
But not anymore.
We’ve been lost,
our contents evaporated by time
or guzzled by someone uncaring—
Maybe by you—
I haven’t decided which.
I look up and see that you are home.