I could hear the door slam closed as you stumble towards the lounge room where I sit. You're drunk again, I can smell it. You smell of alcohol. I feel the couch weigh down as you sit down beside me. I smile, even though you are drunk, your presence is enough to make me smile. You grab my hand, and bring it to your face. I run my fingers through your hair, still not looking at you. Even though I can't. I bring my hand back to your cheek, feeling something wet hit my hand. You're crying.

"What's wrong, love?" I ask, turning my head in the direction I think you're sitting. You fling your arms around me, and pull me in close, the smell of alcohol filling my nostrils. I don't mind as long as I'm close to you.

"I'm sorry," you whisper in my ear, crying softly, "it's all my fault."

"No it's not, you couldn't stop it," I say.

You and I both know what you're going to do tomorrow. You'll go to sleep tonight, and wake up, blaming yourself for the crash. You'll make us some food, and speak to me for five minutes or so, and then you'll leave. You'll go out and get drunk again, and come home, and we'll have this same conversation.

"I should've gone late, you wouldn't be like this," you hiccup.

"I love you," I whisper, holding you close to me, afraid to let you go. I want to hold you in my arms forever, to keep you from going out and getting drunk again. But we know that wont happen. We know you'll go out and get drunk again, and I'll be sitting here, waiting. Waiting for you to get back. Waiting to have the same conversation.

"I love you more," and you grab my face. I can smell the alcohol in your breath. I can feel you coming closer. But your lips don't touch mine. They kiss my cheek, just next to my lips. Like every other time. You never kiss me like you used to. But I'm getting used to it, slowly. You stand up, my I grab the closest part of you, which happens to feel like your arm. I yank you back down.

"I'm sick of this, you never kiss me like you used to, you never touch me like you used to," I growl, and feel upwards until I touch your face, I feel for your lips, and come closer. I slam my lips onto yours. Your tongue licks my lip, asking for entrance. My mouth opens as your tongue slips in. I can taste the vodka and beer, but I don't care. I missed when you would kiss me like this. You pull away, and I grip your shoulders tighter.

"I shouldn't-"

"Kiss me," I say almost like I'm begging you, "touch me, like you used to. Please."

And you do. Your lips crashed back down to mine, and your hands slide up my shirt. I could feel you pushing me back onto the sofa as your hands explored my body. I feel down for the hem of your shirt, feeling buttons underneath my fingers. I fumbled with them until I manage to unbutton your shirt. You move your legs so you're straddling me, and pull your lips from mine. Your hands grip the bottom of my t-shirt and slide it off. A few seconds later, you're kissing me again, only I can feel your bare chest against mine. Your hands slide down to my trousers,

"Are you ready?" You whisper, your lips hovering above mine.

"I've been waiting for months, of course."

So, whose point of view do you think it was? Let me know! Sorry if you didn't like it, I tried :c