I made a promise to write sins
Sometimes I wonder,
if I’m wasting my seconds
trying to prove love
lasts longer
when you drown it with gin.
Her ghost circles back—
again, again—
the Poppy wears
a saccharine, serrated grin—
(oh, how I’ve missed it)
nestled among
my worn-out keycaps.
I didn’t mean to write her—
I keep pressing delete—
But she never blinks.
That's when I know–
I must
write and write and write and write—
or she erases me.
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