I’ll stop drinking, as soon as I forget how your lips felt.
I sleep my days away so that, somehow, somewhere we are still together, and you still love me.
Every cigarette I light makes me wish I was still in your bed, smoking at the crack of dawn, memorizing the queerly paced metronome that was your heartbeat.
And coffee. You put 3 tablespoons of sugar in every cup of Folger’s you drank (which my inner coffee snob silently sneers at). Then I close my eyes and i’m there again, watching you, clinging onto you.
And I believe you’re fine with whatever you’re doing and whoever you’re fucking but me? I’m not, not at all. I’m not fine without you. I feel I am drowning, slowly but surely.
