i never liked vodka.
too sharp.
too clean.
burned without sweetness.
you loved it.
said wine was for girls
who needed permission to be soft.
you never needed permission.
just poured it straight.
no chaser.
no apologies.
just like you.
tonight,
i bought a bottle—
same brand you used to keep
next to your guitar strings
and unfinished books.
i poured it into your old mug—
the one you gave me,
black with a cracked handle.
and i drank.
like it was a prayer,
like it could rewind the years
or pull you back from a wedding altar
you never imagined i'd watch
from behind a screen.
it didn't bring you back.
of course it didn't.
but fuck—
it burned.
and for a second,
so did you
in my throat,
in my chest,
in every goddamn part of me
i promised to someone else.
Hazel,
you never said goodbye.
but you left
in every bottle
i swore i'd never drink.