Countdown.

One desperate night.
Two times as much alcohol as we needed.
Three times now that we've drunkenly passed out on top of eachother, but not in an I-love-you way, not in a just-friends way either, though.
Four rumours- not a single one true.
Five in the morning kisses and conversations in which we decided we were perfect for eachother.
Six ignored knocks and seven missed phone calls, but only three voicemails. They knew where you were anyways.
Eight dollars spent on coffee and cigarettes smoked out of the windows in the morning.
Nine silent minutes holding hands on the way home.
Ten minutes spent saying goodbye.
Nine text messages from you making pretty promises.
Eight times a week.
Seven bruises and six bloody scratches.
Five more reasons to hate me.
Four more reasons to love me.
Three more questions.
Two less people to worry about.
One more time.