The Ripped Soul

I don't know what's wrong with me.

The whole sex talk and remembering all of it. Remembering you, remembering us.

It's not the sex I miss so much that I could fucking cry.

It's you.

Having you lie in my arms. Lying in yours. Listening to your heart beat. Even your little snores. Your fingers intertwined with mine, my fingers in your hair. Your arms wrapped around me, my arms around you. My lips on your neck, caressing every inch of your skin. Your taste on my tongue. Your lips on mine, my lips on yours. Kissing and fucking loving every moment of it.

I miss the memory of you so motherfucking much, it hurts like a fucking bitch. It's fucking killing me.

This cold turkey treatment's a bitch. The withdrawal symptoms are torturing me.

You're a bad ass drug. You used to be my favourite drug.

I need you.

I miss the memory of you so much it makes me cry just thinking about you.

And after all this, I know one fact still remains.

I still love the memory of you.

And I hate it.

I hate that I love you.
I hate that I loved you at all.

What my mom said probably was right afterall..

Just like dad.
20 years ago he said he'll come back.
20 years later he never did.

You said you'll come back.

You probably never will.