Sweet Sorrow

i don't know what this is.

Many times I’ve tried to forget you—
the one thing I can’t erase.
Your imprint, like smoke in my lungs; cold fingerprints beneath my skin.

I’ve been rolling the dice,
putting my emotions on ice,
hoping potions and elixirs might blur your name—
yet you write yourself back all the same.

I’ll drink with Cupid—
torture in its purest form.

He fills my glass with memories I once adored,
keeps me undone, crumpled on the floor,
until my broken voice begs for no more.

This is what happens
when you play games with desire.

I’ll spin the bottle,
lips pressed to glass,
chasing the bottom—
right where you left me:
face down in something bitter,
calling it closure,
yet I fall in deeper.

I try my best to turn the page,
cut myself out—be done, be through.
But the ink always bleeds,
and every chapter, every verse
comes curling back to you.

I have no remedy here.
No rest.
No hope this will undo.

I write in curses under Shakespeare’s name,
twisting pain into a beautiful tragedy
for a life I cannot tame.

Parting is such sweet sorrow—
he warned me, I know.

But this feels less like sweet
and more like a slow decay
into a world I don’t know.

Here, with my unfinished thoughts,
empty glasses, and a broken heart—
in every version of me,
it ends the same:

a soul you left forgotten,
lost to a dead-end game.