Irony speaks for me
I let him chart me,
no compass, no true consent.
Just the burden of hands
where permission was pretend.
Somewhere in my body,
his lips are still habit.
There was a gentleness in him,
a boyhood,
iridescent by morning,
gone by noon.
He didn’t guard himself
when the door clicked shut.
He unfolded,
like a secret too restless to stay hidden.
He softened,
and something in me
stayed with him,
loving him in quiet.
He was beautiful
when the truth caught in his throat,
and the bottle let it through.
He lived certain of his wants
until I taught him doubt.
I wonder if he still flinches
at the hollow I left in his bedframe,
how neatly it held
what he keeps misnaming.
I wonder what stories
he has to twist now
just to swallow sleep.
His name still stings
the backs of my teeth,
a hush curled
like shame in my throat.
I remember him
like breath held too long,
like muscle trained in silence,
grieving before goodbye.
He does know me
by the absence
in everything else.
May every almost
bruise your lips.
-AB
Wishful Thinking 
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