I try so hard to imagine you sober. It should be easier than it is, you know, since I spent eight months letting my world revolve around yours. Eight fucking months. I wonder (again) how I allowed that, and how you could afford it.
Every drunken text, every call past 2 a.m., every time I had to drive you home. I still don’t know if your devilish charm was a quirk of your personality or a token of the alcohol. I can’t count how many times I would walk you up the stairs to the safety of your bed and then scold your brothers on my way back down. They had to have known that you were getting worse by the weekend. They didn’t do a damn thing about it.
You were a ticking bomb, and I knew it. I knew it from our second date, and yet, I couldn’t stay away. Maybe I just wanted to help you. Maybe I was looking for danger. Hell, maybe danger was looking for me. All I know now is that it’s been more than a year since I stormed out for the last time, and I have no idea if you’re better. I’m afraid to ask, so I just choose to believe that you are.
But it’s so easy to miss you when I can imagine you sober.
Your voice never so messy and loud. Your big arms never holding too tight. Your sweet, sleepy eyes never rolled back or bloodshot. Your lips no longer tasting like stale beer. I’m still crazy about the you that you could have been.