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The constellations we built that night shattered 

when they heard your heart cave in from Ohio. 

It's been six months and yet they still lay in my back yard

confused on why the glue wore away when the back read "Always".

Over time they're crawled their way beneath my bed

and spend their time trading remarks about how I ripped your heart out

only to turn around begging for you to take it back 

because the beating has kept me up 

wondering how you're doing with a hole in your chest. 

But knowing you filled it with a new garden of flowers,

I haven't slept in my bed in a week and the taste of food makes me sick.

I spend nights clutching myself instead of you

and humming over your voice.

And now I'm sitting in this f*****g garage numbing the cuts 

and the bruises I've created; filling my veins with galaxies instead of you.

The air is always coated thick with hidden distress and smoke dancing 

through our heads kicking away any thought of the people who left us.

Our blood is 70% amnesia 

and he can't walk straight

and she can't remember her damn name

and I'm laughing at the thought of ever being sober enough

to feel his sweaty, shaking hand in my shirt. 

But this is better than remembering what it's like to see you smile

or to hear my name rolling off your tongue like the thunder coming in from Lake Michigan 

or how the days all blend together now.