I Drank Her Away


I drank her away—
not in a single swallow,
but in slow sips of forget.

Each glass a psalm for what we were:
laughter spilled across pillows,
hands that knew the shape of breaking
without ever calling it by name.

She was a revolution in a whisper.
A midnight vow wrapped in the scent of marigolds
and menthol cigarettes,
saying things like I believe in softness
while unlearning how to be held.

I loved her like thunder loves the wound—
not gently,
but with every intention of changing the sky.

And still,
I poured another,
and another,
chasing her name down my throat
like a ghost I refused to stop kissing.

See, healing isn’t always holy.
Sometimes it stinks of cheap whiskey
and long nights pressed against the bathroom floor
where the only prayer
is let me forget.

I drank her away, yes—
but she fermented in my blood,
distilled into memory,
aged in the oak of my ribs.

Even now, sober and awake,
I can still taste her
when the rain hits warm pavement
and the world smells like second chances.

But I don’t reach for the bottle anymore.
I just whisper to the silence:
I loved her.
And the silence says back:
I know.


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