We drank a little whiskey and I smiled at your goofy grin. I laughed when you bet me a stop sign that I would get sick on my 21st. Little did you know, I can handle my liquor magnificently. We put some music on and swung-out to that 40s rhythm.
You promised you loved me.
You swore you would never leave.
You said you would always hold my hand.
I turned 21 last week and I sat in my cold apartment, alone. I did not drink, I did not smile, I did not laugh, I did not dance. Instead tears burned through my cheeks like acid rain. Instead my nose leaked into countless tissues. Instead I ignored my world.
The promises are broken.
Swearing is just curse words, now.
My hand is empty.
I turned 21 last week. I did not get sick. Now, all I can think is