I still find myself questioning why we never made it to cloud nine.
You would kiss the nape of my neck with such tenderness,
And trail your lips gently on my skin,
as if my body were a coded message
and you were deciphering a message my lips refused to speak.

Now I’m lying here alone
Wearing my pain like it’s a costume.
I’m tired of being so hopeless
Of having words so stuck far up my brain,
that I cannot disentangle them long enough to put my mind to sleep.

My heart is bleeding and I don’t know how to turn that into poetry
How is my writing supposed to save me
when reality has rendered my fingers numb?
I am stuck on your last seen statuses;
Any sign to know you’re there

This is not the best way to forget about you
But it’s better than drinking bitter wine
They say being a sober poet does not necessarily make you a better poet
That’s ok, I’m drunk anyway;
drunk on endless bottles of pain.

I’m a walking sad  poem,
And you’re an ancient language I can’t decipher.
We could never ever be.


One response to “Drunk

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