With ****** knuckles, he returns each night,
A ritual of penance, a sombre rite.
The physical pain a salve for the emotional scar,
A fleeting escape, from the heartbreak so far.

His broken heart, a festering wound,
A constant reminder, of love disowned.
He seeks solace in the bottle's numb embrace,
A fleeting respite, from the memory's trace.

But in the morning, the pain returns anew,
A constant reminder, of what once grew.
And so, he repeats, the cycle once more,
A never-ending cycle, a painful chore.

For in the aftermath of love's demise,
We seek to vanquish the pain, in any guise.
But the wounds of the heart, they linger still,
A constant ache, an unending ill.

But perhaps in the pain, there is also grace,
A chance to heal, to find a new place.
So let us embrace the pain and let it pass,
For in its wake, a brighter future may amass.