these are all confessions and I am the whisky at the bottom of your bottle.
only I never kept you warm and I never filled anyone's empty stomach at two in the morning.
I learned more about you after we stopped looking for ways to find each other.
and how sometimes you can't fix the things that came to you already in pieces.
now even on my peaceful nights I have more doubts than you and I wish I could give you a book filled with all the times I said "I love you" and didn't mean it.
and a map filled with all the places where I said "I love you" and did.
and all I feel is confusion towards you,
not in love and not in hate.
I think this is worse than both.
it's hard to believe that we ever had mornings of hot coffee and smudged makeup.
maybe if it was with someone else I wouldn't constantly watch my coffee lose its warmth and smudge my own makeup with the palms of my hand.
maybe if it was with someone else they wouldn't have felt the need to look for answers in someone else's bed.
it's okay to tell you I found more comfort in someone else's arms than in yours if it's okay for you to not tell me you were spending your nights with someone besides me.
that was never me.
these words mean something but I can't remember who they're for.
if I call it cheating then that would mean it was a game.
if I call this poetry then that would mean we both have a use for manipulation.