I Wish You Would Leave So I’d Have a Reason to Drink

I wish you would leave—

slam the door,

say something cruel enough

to make it easy.

Give me a clean ending,

something sharp

I could point to

and say

that’s where it broke.

Because right now

it’s not broken—

just bent

in ways that don’t look like damage

until you try to stand on it.

You stay.

Soft.

Familiar.

Close enough

to call it love

on the good days.

Distant enough

to make me question

everything

on the bad ones.

And I sit here

in the middle of it—

not hurt enough to walk away,

not whole enough to stay

without feeling it.

So I wait.

For something louder.

For something final.

For a reason

that makes sense

to anyone but me.

Because if you left,

if you made it obvious,

if you turned into something

I couldn’t defend—

then maybe

I wouldn’t have to sit with this.

Maybe I could pour it out

into something stronger,

call it heartbreak,

call it coping,

call it anything

but what it is.

Which is this—

loving someone

who doesn’t quite lose me,

but doesn’t fully keep me either.

And the quiet truth

I don’t say out loud—

I don’t want you to leave.

I just want this

to hurt enough

to justify

the way it already does.