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.