I'm drunk,
and alone,
without you.
But that's not why I'm drunk,
for I am like a sponge,
and I must soak up all liquid I make contact with.
But that isn't the point of this makeshift poem,
it's that you are not here like you should be,
and it's causing me,
to think,
thus drink,
and think of stupid poems which do not adequately  describe my feelings of loss.
But I'm sure in time,
I will not need to drink; as you come back to me,
but now,
is not that time.