I keep replaying the day you left.

A normal, almost pleasant morning until you tore that final rift.
Cool summer air mixing with despair upon finding your
note.

And my sudden flow of tears blurred most of what you wrote but,
It doesn't take much to know I don't make your cut.

And I've yet to address all of the stress or how much I have shrunk.
Most nights spent drunk, I've found the best listeners to be stars.

I tell them of gashes fading into scars.
Tip-toeing around the most painful parts has become a form of art.

What a fool to think I could trick the moon
with this broken heart.

No amount of alcohol can take me from these dizzying heights so,
I guess you were right.