You’re the kind of lover that I’ll never be sure of. You say it’s just me, and I want to believe you. Really, I so badly want to believe you. You tell me to ignore them, that it’s just you and I and the rest of the world doesn’t matter. When we’re together, it fades away. When you’re not here, I hear the whispers. The stories with vague timelines, the girls who seem to know you and, by their smile, I’m guessing they know you a little too well. You’re the kind of lover that I’ll never be sure of.
You’re the kind of drug I’ll never get enough of. I tell myself I will walk away. Every second we spend together, every hour wrapped up in your arms, I cannot live in the moment, because I think about what it will be like to have this as a memory. I try to remember it all. I say this is the last time I say my goodbyes. I always come back. Do you ever believe me? Does my lingering kiss tell you I’ll miss you or that it’s my attempt at goodbye? Maybe you can taste that I want you to tell me to go away, because you know that on my own I can’t. I will always want to stay. You’re the kind of drug I’ll never get enough of.
You’re the kind of sickness that I’ll never be cured of. I drink to forget your name but I’ll end up forgetting mine first. When I hang over the toilet, my friends have stopped asking me why, or better yet, why again. They know. I know. Do you? When I skip work or class, I use a headache as an excuse. Sometimes the flu. Occasionally a stomach bug. Because taking a sick day with you as the reason just doesn’t work. No doctor will sign off on that. Even though I spend those days in bed, feeling as if I cannot cry anymore and yet I do and my eyes are puffy and my throat is sore and my head is pounding. You’re the kind of sickness that I’ll never be cured of.
My kind of lover. My kind of drug. My kind of sickness. Seems you’re not the only problem.