He doesn’t drink much, but he loves tasting the sweet kick of vodka on my lips. I love watching his delicious tongue put words together as poetry flowed out of his dirty, drunk mouth. He intoxicates me.
I’m sorry if I look at your feet instead of your lips when you told me you love me. My whole life, people just kept coming and going, while I kept waiting and hoping. The four-letter-word I know for love is “stay.”
I know, someday, you will forget the poetry I left on your lips, but the next woman you love – she will taste this. While you tuck my name, soft and warm, under your tongue, she will ask you to spit it out. You will tell her tales of your heroism and compassion, as you plot my rot and ruin. But she will see the beauty in my madness. She will hear my giggle in your dreams. She will feel my memory on your fingertips. She will know I am a ghost that won’t ever stop haunting.
Yours is the name,
that is dying a million deaths,
upon my lips.