tonight the moon is a bruise we never apologize for.
he’s late / again /
so i sit by the window, glass cold against my cheek
wondering if love always feels
like waiting for someone you know
might not come back.
there’s still ash in the tray from last week
when he said i’m clean now /
then asked me if i still had some /
just in case.
i said yes /
because i wanted to keep him.
because no would’ve sounded like
i don’t love you high.
the pipe sleeps where we left it:
between the bible his mother gave him /
and the lighter that never runs out.
i remember the first time we shared it—
how he held the flame
like a boy lighting birthday candles
on a cake no one would eat.
he said: i’ve never felt so light.
i said: i’ve never felt so seen.
& we believed both lies.
tonight i whisper
your name into the smoke
like it’s a language
i invented
to explain
why i’m still here.
why the bruise stays
even when the fist forgets.
Jul 11, 2025
Jul 11, 2025 at 1:03 AM UTC
tonight the moon is a bruise we never apologize for.
he’s late / again /
so i sit by the window, glass cold against my cheek
wondering if love always feels
like waiting for someone you know
might not come back.
there’s still ash in the tray from last week
when he said i’m clean now /
then asked me if i still had some /
just in case.
i said yes /
because i wanted to keep him.
because no would’ve sounded like
i don’t love you high.
the pipe sleeps where we left it:
between the bible his mother gave him /
and the lighter that never runs out.
i remember the first time we shared it—
how he held the flame
like a boy lighting birthday candles
on a cake no one would eat.
he said: i’ve never felt so light.
i said: i’ve never felt so seen.
& we believed both lies.
tonight i whisper
your name into the smoke
like it’s a language
i invented
to explain
why i’m still here.
why the bruise stays
even when the fist forgets.
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