Spilling tears hot on my cheeks

flow like a small forest stream -

gentle, slow and pretty quiet,

so they won't interrupt my lasting silence

with a single stray drop

because even the most ordinary,

the most quiet drip

could break my strong faith,

my whole life could crack

and destroy the reality

that I created for us

ever since you left and crushed the hope

that I was once your light

because you were mine, that I know -

a lighthouse that always guided me home;

and what wouldn't I give

for long-spilled wine to return

on white shelves of the old shop

that used to stand on the corner of our street,

for bottles and glasses to not break

into a million shards shining as if they were stars

on our tiled kitchen floor

instead of in the night sky painted with ink;

and don't we deserve a happy ending, my dear,

after long dreamless nights

when sleep eluded us, out of reach,

and infinite thoughts were running through our heads;

we knew relationships need hard work,

but you always were the lazy one;

that's why broken glasses won't hold spilled wine

and I'm left alone to clean this mess

derived from our destructive feelings,

which were impossible to express

without drowning in alcohol.