That self-made ire

My problems real or imagined can be solved by liquid solution
(and no I don't mean ablution)
Wherever you are now is none of my concern
Since I can find you now in sweet intoxication
Where we spend our nights in make believe fornication

I've been made to grow older but none the wiser
A constant quitter, who's every bit a loser
That you painstakingly made in your image
Only to later hate with a passionate rage

In my current state I confuse the facts all the time
All the fights there were many, all the joy I keep recalling
Yes I was the one parachuting out the plane as it caught fire
But you were the one torching it with that self-made ire

I hate it when it wears off, this temporary absolution
It tends to put me resentfully in this realistic position
As I am more able to walk in a relatively straight direction
The truth starts to sink in:
I am here quite sober, in your resounding absence.