I pity him because I feel him.
I am him.
I've forgotten what it means to be intimate and nothing compares to the sincerity in their eyes as you sit and curse your family for why you're sad
and blame your ex for every self-destructive measure.
They say it'll be okay and mask that pain with an embrace; the most temporary of bandaids.
You won't remember it the next morning when you're hungover,
but it stopped hurting for a second.
Intimacy is the morphine for those who seek an end.
He seeks it, I seek it.
It prolongs the end as it reignites the hope something (someone) new will save you.
But they disappear after every Saturday night so you spend that next week drowning in that wave until she drags you by your hair from the water that next Saturday evening.
Every time she has a different face, laugh and taste in her mouth which will soon be washed out of yours because that wave will only cleanse out your insides again in a matter of hours.
She's brutal and violent; a hurricane on dry land.
The drowning is painful, but her ever changing existence fills your lungs with more oxygen than learning to swim on your own could ever give you.