My stomach feels as if it’s being pierced by knives.
It’s probably from the rum I have every night.
I know none of this is right.
But the way your hearts with another.
Kills me a bit more.
And I’m slowly accepting,
that the boat you are on.
Will most likely never arrive at my shore.
You’re long gone.
© Duc Nguyen WordsOnEmptyEars, 2016