Relapse is statistically inevitable.

The only reason I ever sleep anymore is to see her face again.

To hear her voice again.

To have her look at me the way she used to.

Tonight we blinded heaven itself and we stole from all the angels. We took what we wanted from whomever we pleased.

I used the moon to light her silhouette, she used the stars to light her cigarette.

There was nothing I wouldn’t have done for her, except the one thing she asked.

I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, and when I die of this broken heart I’ll die knowing I never really betrayed her.