i find solace in a bottle of whiskey and drunken hookups to wash the feel of your hands on me. i could never say we were just friends, not in the way you set alarms in every sleeping nerve of my body or the way bloodbaths rush through my veins when you look at me. i suffocate at the idea of you belonging to someone else and i'm singing baby come home but you've been gone for four days and your best friend doesn't know where you are and i worry for you, a thick ball of dread that follows me around -
and i suppose that's what it comes down to; we could never be just friends because just means only, and you were never only anything, you were an everything.
