I don’t know what we were, or where we were going.
Maybe that’s why you left. Maybe it wasn’t me at all.
It hurt going to bed to “I love you” and waking to an empty screen.
My heart was cut open and I bled freely.
But I patched myself up. I told myself the Why didn’t matter.
The Why wasn’t mine to know and that would have to be OK.
I still missed you, but the pain was healing, my heart scabbing over.
But all contact wasn’t gone. I had your music. So I listened.
And “I was getting used to being someone you loved” all over again.
Until that song hit me.
Fuck the bandaid, you tore off the whole scab and you’re not even here to watch me bleed.
It’s not your fault though. You didn’t know I’d listen.
You didn’t know how that song would hit me.
You didn’t make me listen.
I did it to myself.
But I wish you were here to watch me bleed and kiss away the pain.