Twenty-Six

On the 26th, I carried 26 cents in my pocket and thought of 26 reasons why I love you.

When I turned 16, I asked you to kiss me 16 times, one for each year.
The last two had to be the best because the past two years with you had been the best out of all my sixteen.

On the ninth, I only allowed myself to cry nine tears and think of nine reasons that you should still be mine, nine reasons that we belonged together.
I couldn't find the nine breaths of air to say it.

Thirteen people told me it was all going to be okay.
Thirteen people lied.

Five months later I wrote you five letters telling you how much you meant to me and only got five words in return
"Things are better this way."

The 26th came around again and I had no change in my pockets and only half of my 26 reasons to love you. I held twenty pills in my hand and shook countless shivers because it all felt so wrong and the numbers weren't matching up.
The phone rang four times but yours was the one voice I wanted to hear.

It was the 26th, and I couldn't think of a single reason to go on without you.