Empty beer bottles line the windowsill,
collecting dust down through their necks
to mix in with the last few drops of alcohol
not consumed,
nor rinsed out and down the sink.

Lined up in a row
they tell a story of the evenings past
filling our stomachs with barley and malt
until they reached our minds
and made us feel better.

Some are yours, some are mine,
but we drank them together
talking, smiling and laughing,
liking each other.
For me, at least.

How many beers will it take
for us to tell each other
how we really feel?