I drink the night where your voice once bloomed—
the bitter sweetness of it,
like blood and honey on the tongue.

The wind moves through me,
soft as the ghost of your touch,
hard as the emptiness where you left nothing but air.

I press my ribs together,
as if love were something I could swallow whole,
as if your silence were not the body I wear now.

The stars etch your name into the dark,
but they have never tasted you.
I whisper back,
but the silence knows me better.