AFTERLOVE

Your name
is still inside my mouth
like a bruise I begged for.

The room
smells like surrender—
jasmine,
salt,
the ghost of a star
you tore from my throat.

My thighs remember you
in languages
older than Earth—
every sigh
a translation
of your ache
into mine.

We didn’t just touch—
we undid time.
My pulse stammered
into your rhythm,
and we both forgot
our names
for a while.

You asked me nothing.
And I gave you
everything.

Now—
between your breath
and mine,
there is only
the hum
of something sacred
and wrecked.

Not love.
Not lust.
But that raw after-thing
that clings to the sheets
like confession.

I am not clean.
I am not sorry.

I am yours.

:: 04.13.2025 ::