I scrubbed my floors of your footprints.
I shredded the notes you left on my coffee table.
I smashed the bottles of wine you left in the kitchen.
I am sober from the intoxication of your kiss.
Never again will I be vulnerable to the way you whispered my name in the early hours of the morning.
That tingling sensation, where your icy fingertips brushed my shoulders, has dulled.
I miss the chill but Hell will suffice.

The blunt force of remembrance is unbearable.
The stripping of my pride would prove less painful.
Someone told me looking back was dangerous.
I finally understand why.
I fear I've offended those around me;
My tunnel vision has ruined my spirit.
I live a stranger to my own presence.
No one told me to knock on survival's over-sized door.
So I didn't.

I've noticed your grimace.
Crawl into my arms.
Let your mind unravel to the simplicity of love.
Let yourself live.
Break down the barriers of confinement.
When the world falls short of water, we will set the stars ablaze.
I will look at them with pride and your name will cross my lips.
This time with purpose.

I know it's bad for me but I invented it's intentions.
I turned my oxygen into carbon monoxide.
And I breathe it in until I see stars.
Inhale. Inhale. Inhale.
Something so sweet only deserves such treatment.
The pleasure an alcoholic experiences with the smell of France's wine cannot compare.
The aroma so satisfactory I fear a moment in its absence.
Dependence is a lethal thing.

He enters the room, smirk on that hideously gorgeous face. The *******.
Walks by the young girls like he owns the swag of a thousand Biebers.
He is mistaken. Or are we?
"Push the air through your diaphram" he says with a sly grin, looking across the room at her.
She looks back. Defiance on her lips? No. Intrigue.
Their eye contact puts a weight on bystanders; The building pressure of a crescendo waiting to be released.
She breaks it. He frowns.
He is impressionable but very rightly so.
She sighs.
Victory sings an out of tune pitch.
He walks over, dragging Zachary's broken French horn behind.
Looks like this student will have to wait; His teacher is on a mission.
"Mission accomplished" he thinks as she sits on his living room couch, wine of glass in hand.
He resides in his bedroom, awaiting the inevitable.
He walks out to find an empty wine glass and an empty room.