He left me. 

After four years and a million memories, each one now stings like a paper cut soaked with vinegar.

The weight of my love for him crushes my chest and my lungs scream for relief.

But instead of helping me breathe, I watch as he walks out my door one last time. 

I drown the rivers falling from my eyes with sangria and try to silence my gasps for air in my pillow.

As dawn begins to peak through the window I find myself reaching into my bedside table.

The familiar crinkle of paper acts like a lifeline pulling oxygen back into my lungs.

My pen seems to have a mind of its own as it spills my sorrow onto the page like blood.

Hours later I look down at my scarlet magnum opus and the tears have stopped. 

I’ll be okay.