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.

He says he loves me—
or he said it once,
when I tried to leave.
His knees kissed the cold tile
of our small white kitchen,
his voice a trembling psalm of need.

Is this love,
or a mausoleum I’ve mistaken for shelter?
Am I trading my breath
for the comfort of his ghost?

They tell me this is right.
They smile like prophets
preaching from their pews—
why would they lie?
Their voices echo louder than mine.

I had dreams once.
Bright things with teeth and flight.
A life I etched in the corners
of notebooks and night skies—
but I suppose it can sleep,
for him.
He is the love of my life.
He must be.
He has to be.

I can always chase stars
some other time,
after the dust has settled,
after the vows are spoken,
after I forget who I was.

I am still young,
though time weeps from my mirror.
I could wait—
but he cried again tonight,
on the floor of our pale, quiet kitchen.
He wept like the dead weep,
when the earth forgets them.

The house knows.
It leans in closer each night.
The corners darker, the silence deeper.
Even the air waits, holding its breath.

Should I do this?

Surely…
Surely he’ll still love me
this way
in ten years.

…Right?

I let my shame go not with absolution but a slow unraveling, like silk rotting in rain.
No pride left to barter, no prayers to offer.
Just the hollow hush of surrender.

And so I no longer fear death.
She comes for all— with or without permission, without apology, without poetry.

I see her sometimes.
At 3 a.m.,
when the walls breathe heavier, when the mirrors turn their backs.
She peers around corners, begging for me to turn, her fingers curled
as if to beckon or scold.

She wears my face when the light slips— not quite mine,
but close enough to weep for.

She has seen me unravel, kissed the ruin in my chest, and called it holy.

I have made peace with her.
With the dark.
With the ending.
With the truth
that she waits in every quiet room— not as a thief, but as a witness.
And when she comes, I will not run.
I will not beg.
I will only say:
"I saw you. I knew you. I was not afraid."

Why does every lover return to you somehow?

I still stalk about you—
in rooms you’ve never been,
through digital shadows
and half-lit memories
where your voice once lived.

I trace your name
in the fog of mirrors,
click through photos
like rosary beads,
each one a tiny ache,
a litany of ifs.

I scroll until my fingers numb,
searching for the shape of you
in strangers’ reflections—
the curve of a laugh,
the outline of a jacket
you once wore into winter.

I know your new routines.
The ones that don’t include me.
The songs you’ve added,
the cities you’ve ghosted through.
Even your smiles feel rehearsed now—
or maybe they always were.

I haunt the timelines
like a relic looking for worship.
Like maybe you’ll post a sign
that you remember me too.

But you never do.

Still, I stalk about you—
in quiet hours
and reckless ones,
when my body forgets how to be alone
without whispering your name
into the dark like a warning.

There is no closure.
Just the endless echo
of someone who once looked back
but didn’t stop.

I am the sum of every longing—
the dreamer
and the dream
made flesh.

I am the god I search for in silent hours,
the altar
and the offering
laid bare upon it.

I am the prayer,
whispered through clenched teeth,
half hope,
half hunger.

I am the beginning—
the first inhale,
the first cry,
the first breaking.

I am the end—
the final word,
the fading light,
the quiet surrender.

I am the exhibitionist.
I am the ******.
I am the mirror
and the eye that never blinks.

All that I am,
all that I will be,
begins and ends within me.

I am the predator.
I am the prey.
The claw,
the wound,
the blood between.

I am rebirth.
I am death.
The flame
and the ash.

I am the giver.
I am the taker.
The mother.
The child.
The echo,
and the voice
calling out into it.

I AM
I AM
I AM.

Toes entwined, our bodies meld into one, hot and feverent skin sliding against each other in a feverish embrace.

The heat of our small, suffocating room wraps around us like a heavy shroud, yet we cling together, defying its oppressive grip.

The air is thick and saturated with warmth and sweat, each breath an effort as the room seems to pulse with our shared intensity.

I press my lips to your damp forehead, the perspiration mingling with my kiss, and in that fleeting moment, I have never been more in love.

The taste of salt lingers on my lips, a reminder of the afternoon’s heat and passion.

My fingers trace through your hair, every touch a story of our gothic cocoon written in the silence and shadow of our small, fevered sanctuary.

In this hallowed space, where shadows dance and time stands still and the walls draped in unspoken vows.

I find love unyielding, unaddressed and unabiding.