Every time I let the bottle
graze my lips,
my entire body
rocks with an unnerving feeling
of melancholy.
Nostalgia rattles my brain;
yearning wraps its icy fingers
around my heart.
Every inch of my body tingles with a
sensation that is begging for you.
I can feel you on my skin;
I can remember vividly
the way your fingers graze my arms,
neck, and stomach and…
I’m getting off track.
I’m drunk again—no surprise there, huh?
It’s about now, when I’m too many bottles down,
that you would try to grasp it from my hands,
or text me in concern.
But your message was only transience;
I never listened to you.
And now, as I’m too many bottles down,
I find myself missing your exasperating
complaints.
I wish you were here to tell me I’ve had too much
to drink.
And in return I would cry,
and cry, and cry,
and oh god, I would cry.
And I would tell you how much I miss you.
But too much has changed;
time is constantly against me;
my happiness has always been fleeting.
we’ve both grown and matured,
and our time together has expired.
I know if we tried
again,
we’d be as bitter as out of date milk.
And yet,
for some insane reason,
I still want us to try again.
I like to have someone to fall back
to when I’m indecisive and alone,
and alcohol pumps through my veins.
I miss you,
and I shouldn’t.
We’re done;
we have been for so long.
So why can’t I stop writing about you?