Mourning after

I don’t love.
I linger.
Stay just long enough
to make your sheets miss me.
Leave just soon enough
for your hands to lie about how empty they feel.


I kiss like I mean it —
but only once.
You’ll taste it later
on your pillow,
on your breath,
on the name you don’t say out loud
anymore.

I make memories
like bite marks.
Small.
But permanent.

Every room I leave
smells like “what if.”
Every body I touch
asks for seconds
before they finish swallowing the first.


I don’t say goodbye.
I let the silence
undress you after I’m gone.

Mourning after,
and I’m not there.
Just the warmth.
Just the ruin.
Just the echo of a “don’t stop”
you never meant to scream.

I don’t leave fingerprints —
just second thoughts.

I don’t call back.
I call forward.
You’ll hear me again
when someone else
kisses you wrong.
You’ll flinch
when they do it right.

I haunt the good ones.
Slip between the sheets of better people
and make them worse
for knowing me.

I don’t destroy —
I decorate.
I leave you
beautifully haunted.

I didn’t break you.
You begged to bend.
And I was gentle
for someone with
every reason not to be.

Mourning after,
no regrets.
Just bruises
with names you won’t admit.
I leave soft.
But I stay
in the mirror.

And some nights,
you look yourself in the eyes
and see me blinking back.

I didn’t promise forever.
I promised the moment.
And I gave it.
Dripping, breathless,
pure.

You wanted more.
But I’m not a habit —
I’m a relapse
in a satin dress.

Mourning after.
One kiss.
One name.
One moment
you won’t ever forget
but won’t ever repeat.

I’m not a secret.
I’m a scar
you kissed back.

Modern country trap, blues