12:19 a.m.

Isn't it ironic how the hand I long to hold
Is the same one holding me beneath the waves,
Rendering me breathless?
Yet I crave more from you.
No amount of whisky could rid the taste of you
From my mouth.
Your lips numbed my own more than any amount of alcohol ever will.
I am drunk on the thought of you,
Yet somehow
A placid state washes over me.
I have yet to feel the heat of the flames
Which burned the bridge between us.
I feel no anger
Nor despair.
There is no melancholy sadness poking at my lungs.
I feel nothing but emptiness;
A longing for your hands tangled within my hair,
Your lips on mine-
Breathing love back into my lifeless lungs.

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