I’m not a pile of shattered glass on the hard floor, beyond repair.
I’m a broken record that repeats repeats repeats the same memories of you

I’m not a river of silent tears streaming down a burning hot face.
I’m a restless night and a mysteriously swollen lip in the morning

I’m not a shaky voice on the verge of crumbling.
I’m a mindless ramble and a laugh that’s too loud.

I’m not the bitter taste of liquor on the back of your throat or the harsh feel of cold night air on bare skin or the glare of streetlights on wet pavement at 2AM
I’m an oversized t-shirt that’s probably not warm enough to sleep in when the temperatures at night dip too low, but it would be if you were here but you’re not and it was the only thing that wasn’t on the floor and I’m too caught up in you to clean up me so I’m an oversized t-shirt that isnt warm enough on its own but is trying.

And you aren’t trillions of shards shooting through my stomach when I hear your voice all the times we walk by eachother as strangers on the streets.
You’re a slight pressure on my mind, everywhere I go.

We weren’t anything of significance.
We weren’t raw throats or bloodshot eyes or holes in the wall.
But, neither were we a hot cup of coffee on cold fingertips.

We weren’t some tragic love story.

You were just a tired boy with nothing to do
And I was just a girl a little too high on hopes that were too high to climb up to and I fell a little too hard and got a bit bruised on the way down.

Now you’re just a memory of selfish lips.

And I’m just a broken record.