GIVE ME SOME MORPHINE.

You are never sober.

The facts are that most people fall out of love the same way they fell in it.
I used to love the way you would find me in the dark. The way your hands would find mine and cleave them from their constant state against my thigh. You would tell me I looked abominable with my lips in a consistent purse and my eyebrows always furrowed, but you kissed me when you said this and that somehow made it okay.
Sometimes I would wake up and the left side of the bed would be empty, only an imprint of a body to show you ever existed in the first place. See, you had a problem with coming and going. You always felt alone in a gaze you shouldn't have ever come to in the first place.
I pretended to not notice.
When you would lean in to kiss me, I pretended not to smell the intoxication of your breath and that your lipstick was merely smeared because you had fallen asleep with it on again.
I guess you loved me for my abominable attitude and I loved you for bringing the best out of me with your perkiness and the ability to charm. You loved to party a little too much. That's how we met. I suppose you can say that's also where we went horribly wrong.
It's summer now and I don't miss you, but my hands do. My nails are short from biting and my hands are rough and dry. Maybe I'll always feel the absence.
Maybe that's for the best.