Whiskey I [m.yg]

30.

A year later, you texted me.

God, do I wish I changed my phone number.

You asked me to meet up with you and I did.

We met at that bar and you were drinking whiskey.

I didn't order a drink, hoping I'd get to taste your lips again.

To my surprise, I did.

The exact same scenario occurred again.

He broke up with you and you kissed me.

That's how you killed me.

"Tobacco?"

You nodded.

"When did you start smoking?"

"Last year."

You made me love you.

You made me drink whiskey.

You made me smoke.

I do lots of shit just to remember how your lips once tasted like.

Our last kiss tasted like salt, honey, whiskey and tobacco.

I miss your lips against mine.

I miss the foreign sensation I got when you pressed them on mine. I miss how your fingers would play with the ends of my black hair as they pressed deeply into the back of my neck.

Did you ask me to meet up with you because you missed me like I missed you?

Did you kiss me because you loved me like I loved you?

Did you hurt me because I hurt you?

But you hurt me first, remember?