There was something about the way you clenched your fists and bit your tongue, the way you pleaded non-guilty every night I let my secrets pour out, but you had all of your flood gates open and it was a sight to see.
I carved your initials into my sternum, and cried every time I saw your face on the news, lost and begging for sunlight when all I am is rain over the ocean. They say the sea is just a reflection, so how come all I can see in the rip tides are the love stories you wrote me 2 years ago?
I will never forget how we wanted the Rocky Mountains and a small wedding, and I don't know about you but I meant every syllable that slipped through my thirsty lips until you replaced me with the need to feel like the old you; the chase wasn't enough.
Xanax won't **** all of the pain, only push it deeper inside of yourself only push the few left who actually give a **** further away. I can see the you that I love inside those glassy, cyan eyes and you're beautiful, yes, but I can't save you if you keep pulling the trigger on yourself in this exhausting game of roulette.
I didn't mean to write about you, and I'm sorry, but I always do.