moonshine drips from your mouth,

not liquor—no,

just the sweet sting of a name I forgot to forget.

you speak in tongues,

and I drink every lie like it might let me sleep.

you were never gentle,

only soft in the dark.

I mistook that for mercy.

but you burn like Sunday guilt

and leave ash on the pillows.

moonlight was the look in your eyes

when you promised you’d stay.

not light—not grace—

just the ghost of intention.

just the coldest part of the flame.

I keep the curtains closed now.

not to hide the sun,

but because even silver reminds me of skin

I didn’t have the right to touch.

I walk the floorboards barefoot,

catching echoes of your laugh between the cracks.

your absence has a sound.

it hums under my ribs,

a lullaby with no resolve.

I want to scream your name in a cathedral

just to see if God flinches.

just to see if anyone remembers

you existed inside me once,

like a breath I never exhaled.

so I sip the moonshine,

choke on the moonlight,

and beg sleep to come like you used to—

late,

angry,

and full of apologies.

but it never does.

only the ache returns.

only the ache

always

returns.