The only thing I crave
After drinking myself sick
Is to be in your presence.
And I'm sorry for all of the drunk calls
But you never answer anyway.
I'm wondering if I'm nauseated
By the whiskey in my blood
Or the coldness of your eyes
That practically shouted their goodbyes
And gave me nightmares
About soulless creatures
And almost lovers.
I feel like I've said this all before
But you're never around to hear it.
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you,
But I'm sick, sick, sick.