I drink to remember you.
The red wine runs like blood over my white pages, and the shattered glass bites deep— a cruel communion drawn from your absence.
I've spoken too much.
Too many midnights
spilling your name like a prayer soaked in rotor flesh that clings to the spine of the dark.
Still, you fade.
With each turning moon, you rot from memory.
And I-I become the reliquary that forgets.
I should be done.
But you vanish like a ghost too tired to haunt, too cruel to stay, too kind to leave teeth.
I burned your poems, your paintings, your letters.
The smoke curled like a psalm to something ruined.
But the fire was no priest— it did not absolve.
It remembered.
It sang you back to me in ash and ruin.
I drink to remember you-until my liver turns to rot, until the silence howls, until I forget
why l ever let you live inside me like a god, or a disease.