You used to tell me that everything would be alright, no matter what happened to us. We're destroyed, we've fallen apart, this is it. It's over, it's over, it's over. I'll be okay eventually when I forget how soft your hair felt in my hands, and how electrified our bodies were when we kissed. I'll consider myself alive when I stop believing that you still care, that you still stare at your phone wanting to contact me, and having to hold yourself bach from confessing all of the things I already know when you've had one too many drinks. I'll make it out of this when I stop looking you up and checking in on how you are and who you're with. I will be be "alright" when I can finally say goodbye, but dear, I don't think I'll ever be alright then.