To Be A Dew Drop

It seems that
Happiness
has become a slippery thing,
one that slides through fingers and drips down
the drain, followed by the dirty dishwater.

And it seems that
Love
is just a relative thing that we say
to make conversation and to make light of
this horribly uncomfortable situation.

It must appear that
I
have become a dew drop...
a pretty thing at night, glistening,
but forgotten in the afternoon sun's embrace.