In a bottle.

She pondered, dazed. Warm
behind the eyes. Drunk on
tiredness alone. How many
messages are in a bottle?
She couldn’t quite remember,
now a shadow of her twenty-
something self. Surely it
depends how long said bottle
lasts. And how many hands
reach to clink! in its honour.
A chorus of mouths will
always be louder than a solo
salut, after all. Or perhaps
not at all. Perhaps the
messages we keep locked in
intoxicated depths far
outnumber the ones that live
to finally test our breath.