Your kiss—
oh, your kiss—
did more than touch my lips;
it carved itself into me,
a slow-blooming bruise
beneath the surface
where no one else can see.
I carry it still,
the taste of you—
salt and heat,
smoke and want—
a phantom flavor
that lingers long after the night
has surrendered to dawn.
Your hands,
once roaming bold and sure,
are ghosts now,
haunting the curve of my waist,
the hollow of my back,
the soft underside of my thigh.
Everywhere you touched—
still there.
Still burning.
I try to wash you off—
in long showers,
in clean sheets,
in the quiet ache of mornings alone.
But you cling—
to my skin,
to my breath,
to the fragile edge of my dreams.
And sometimes,
when the night is deep
and sleep slips just out of reach,
I feel it all again—
the press of your body,
the hiss of your wanting,
the gasp that caught in my throat
as you whispered my name
like it was a secret too sweet to keep.
I hate it.
I love it.
I ache for it still.
You are gone.
But you linger—
in every sigh,
in every shiver,
in every silent plea
for one more taste
of the way we burned.
