Eighteenth November,
I asked if he still loved me;
His eyes were cold
& seemingly devoid of any sort of love
he once felt for me

"I'm not sure if I still love you,"
"You suffocate me,"
"I'm sick of seeing you 24/7"

What was I expecting?

That very night, I cried to myself
& wrote a four-paged letter.
It smelt of whisky and cigarettes
But even more so like a breakup with myself.  

Nineteenth November,
I watched him as he slept;
He’d looked as endearing as he’d since day one.

"I love you," he mumbled half-asleep.
"Can we not fight anymore?" I half-begged.
"I'm sorry, please don't move out...." he said.

Six words
were all it took for you
to change my mind;
how very easy?
I thought to myself,
running back into your arms,
as I always do.