In a world of pessimists, my glass was always three-quarters full.
If only my heart was the same. I’d shiver like a temblor, and say your name. Did I stutter? I shuddered while carrying a torch and my drink in that glass to the porch to watch the world burn down.
I trip and fall and think about how sleep is practice for death, while the glass spills its contents and shatters.
Optimists and pessimists alike shake their heads sadly and go have a drink. My heart is neither half full nor half empty. Just broken.