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 in bitter fits
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.