In my years of practice, I have known how to deal with losing
How to cope with the pain, the hurt, and all the baggages
It usually takes me 7 bottles of beers, a shot of tequila,
and a drunk call every night for 3 months
I have known how to deal with the questions, asked to me everyday
by every person who has come to know my story
I have mastered how it is to struggle with the memories
the pictures, clothes on the closet, writings on my walls
the letters, the texts messages, the whispers behind my ear
I have known how to deal with people leaving
I am not the person everyone remembers first when they say forever
I am not the person anyone remembers
I am always the person they try to forget
scrub away from their skin, the poison in their blood stream
I have come in peace with the art of leaving

You came and all that crashed, all down the drain
All my preparations for the storm, gone
You came and all my heart could do was try
not to explode every time I steal glances your way
I tried not to take our conversations
as something you looked forward to everyday
I tried to stay away but my soul gets tired of pulling away
It knows what it wants, and you know I won't give up without a fight
I know you're not going to stay but **** it
My ******* soul recognizes yours
It has gone all out to make you see how much they know each other
Why do you have to set camp here, where it's a mess and nothing is good enough for your hands, your fingers, your touch
Why did you let me in, where all I could do is stay in awe of how enough I am for your late night random phone calls
Why do you have to tell me you have feelings for me but let me stay in places where no one recognizes me -
your heart still silently wishes it wasn't me
your soul still searching, something that does not resemble me

I have always told you to never settle
But now I am telling you I am willing to be the purple bruise,
the reckless bump on the wrong side of the table
the turn that leads to places only we know of
the stubborn decision over bottles of beer, breaths of poison
the speed dial # 2, the drunk dial, the **** dial, as long as you call me
the bad poetry, the rhymes that do not add up to a beautiful piece
the last drop of ink on your teal pen
the favorite shirt but is too short, too used to still use
the photo, kept in the dustiest part of your closet
the secret, the well-thought off outsider
the painting you never get the time to finish
the almost

I have always been the person who leaves
*I'm going to stay