We met in corners, in shadows, in the breath
of a lie whispered close. I watched your hands,
mapped the veins like blue rivers that pulsed life
through borrowed moments, knowing each touch
was a secret stitched in the flesh. You wore your ring
like armor; I wore my need like a wound,
open and bleeding every time you spoke.
I told myself it was love—that tangled heat,
a slow burn under the skin, the ache of you
pressed against me, filling the hollow places
I’d carved out quiet rooms in beds that weren’t mine.
We never called it wrong, not out loud.
We called it us. We called it fire.
You called when she wasn’t home,
when the house was too quiet
and the guilt wasn’t loud enough
to drown out the wanting.
At first, it was hunger.
Animal, primal, raw—
you against the wall,
I, with my breath, hitched,
teeth grazing your collarbone,
the bitter taste of your name
still hot on my tongue.
We made a religion of it,
sinned like saints in the backseat,
churches of parking lots and dim hotel rooms.
You’d touch my hair, my throat, my ribs,
your fingers spelling secrets I tried to forget
but wore bruises in hidden places.
We were beautiful in our recklessness,
untouched by consequence,
floating above what we knew would sink us.
But love is a slow rot,
a quiet poison we drank willingly,
thinking the burn was just passion,
not the start of an ending.
Your promises were smoke,
curling around my lungs,
suffocating but sweet.
I breathed them in any way,
eyes closed, dreaming of a version
where we were free and accurate,
not just borrowed, not just stolen.
You said you’d leave her.
Once, twice, a hundred times—
like a prayer you never meant.
I waited in rooms with no clocks,
fingers tracing the cold glass
of half-empty wine bottles,
your texts are like breadcrumbs
leading nowhere but back to you.
We were an open wound—infected,
oozing the lies we told ourselves
when the lights were off.
Every kiss felt like both a promise
and a goodbye.
There were days when I hated you,
when the phone didn’t ring,
when your silence was louder
than any touch you’d ever given.
I’d spit your name like venom,
write your absence on bathroom mirrors
and lipstick-smeared napkins.
I made myself small,
trapped in the corners of your life
where she couldn’t see,
where no one ever looked close enough
to catch us slipping.
And still, I stayed.
Love’s fool, love’s martyr,
pinned beneath the weight of you.
Now, our meetings are darker,
the light between us thinning
It’s like a thread about to break.
I trace the curve of your jaw
with fingers gone cold,
your touch now a chain,
a rope I once mistook for a lifeline.
You still say you love me,
but the words feel brittle,
like old flowers pressed in books,
fading to nothing but memory.
You still hold me close,
but I’ve learned the shape of distance
in the crook of your arm.
I don’t know what we are anymore,
two ghosts haunting the same lie,
too afraid to leave, too tired to stay.
We keep pretending the fire’s still warm,
that we aren’t burning,
that we can’t feel the smoke.
But we are ashes now,
scattered and lost,
drifting on a wind we can’t control,
knowing every touch is just another step
toward the inevitable end. I loved you.
I hate you.
I still need you,
but we’re nothing more than a beautiful disaster,
a slow-motion car crash,
a love that’s more wound than wonder.
This is how we fall apart—
with every stolen kiss,
every desperate lie,
every moment we pretend
we’re anything but broken.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.