You sit where I swore I’d never see you again—
bottle half-drained,
still sweating in the dark,
like you never left.

You wear my fingerprints
like trophies.
You know what I’ll do
before I do it.

Some nights I bargain:
just a sip,
just enough to take the edge off,
just to sleep.
But you don’t deal in “just.”
You take
and I give
until I’m nothing but slurred thoughts
and locked doors.

I’ve woken with you in my blood—
mouth dry,
heart a fist beating itself raw.
Woken on floors,
in beds I didn’t recognize,
words I didn’t mean
still hanging in the air.

You’ve stolen my face
in pieces—
eyes too red,
voice too loud,
the jokes too sharp.
But still, I miss you
like a limb
I had to cut off
to stay alive.

You’re patient.
You haunt without a sound.
No footsteps,
no breath—
just the knowledge
that you’re always an inch away
from welcome.

But I’ve counted the bottles
like headstones.
I’ve buried enough nights
to know where this road goes.
Down a path I don’t want to follow,
yet I still do.
You remain.
But so do I.