Brushing the Brim

It's a good thing I am not an alcoholic.

I fear it would be too easy.

You hold onto the glass for comfort,

the small tangible feel of a delicate object

your only friend.

Lucky for me it's only filled

with orange juice or an occasional milkshake.

It's so easy to carry around this friend;

the only tangible thing.

Spilling the contents inside to 

fill up your empty space.

Over and over again

your lips brush the brim.

The liquid spills inside and then

you're full but not content.

For in the end 

the glass is empty once again

And you see the bottom

And fear the end.