There are too many nights when your name
still finds its way into my bed,
crawling through the sheets
and into the cracks of my tattered heart.

Sometimes it can be comforting,
memories of the better days—but usually,
usually it’s the abrupt ending
that deepens my self loathing
and keeps me from sleeping.

After all this time, you’d think I’d hate you,
despise your existence for all the pain you’ve caused me
but I can’t help this stupid heart of mine
from doing anything but loving you.

I miss it. I miss us. I miss you.
And it’s killing me.

I think about the nights we used to stay up talking
and the nights we’d joke about the future
and the life we were going to have together
and it all seems like some bizarre dream nowadays;
it’s becoming harder and harder
to remind myself that these things happened,
that my love for you was justified
even if the way you treated me wasn’t.

They story of you and I has become a tired tune,
no one will listen to it anymore so I’ve locked it away,
away in the darkest parts of my memory.

It’s going to be a long time before I can think of you
and appreciate the happiness, without breaking from the sadness.

I’m sorry.