He's packing his bags while I peek out from under the covers.
All I want to do is tell him to stay, but my immense pride and raw throat prevents me from doing so.
He comes over to kiss me and like that, he's out the door.
I don't lose it.
In fact-
I don't lose it until I hear his motorcycle rev up and drive away.
It's my fault, you know...
Because I can't decide what I want
I run away when things are good
I search and find the smallest proof of wrong-doing until I drive myself crazy, in return driving him crazy.
Crumbs on the coffee table
Pants on the floor
  Dishes in the sink
Why do those things matter?

They don't.
He does.