The Hours You Borrowed From Me

I’m writing this with a tongue stained purple,

as if confession requires a costume,

as if honesty tastes better

when it lingers on the gums.

Evenings began with a ceremony,

the soft pop of a cork,

the slow tilt of a bottle,

the way you filled the glass

like a promise poured too generously.

I loved you because you kept me awake.

At first, it felt decadent,

a kind of velvet‑lined insomnia,

the glamorous ache of someone

who mistakes restlessness for depth.

But hours passed, and the room grew warmer,

tilting slightly, as though gravity had opinions

about my choices.

Still, I poured another inch,

believing clarity lived somewhere near the bottom,

believing you could teach me

how to be softer with myself.

I loved you because you kept me awake.

Now it sounds like an alibi,

the kind whispered to a friend

who’s too polite to say

I’ve told this story before.

By midnight, I confused numbness with comfort.

You held me, or I held you,

the distinction blurred like the edges of a memory

I wasn’t ready to face.

People said I should slow down.

They said longing isn’t the same as loyalty.

But what do they know

of rituals poured at 18 degrees,

of solace disguised as fruit and tannin?

It’s late again.

The bottle half‑empty.

Or half‑honest.

I loved you because you kept me awake.

And now the line sours, not praise,

not an excuse, but a quiet grief:

you kept me awake when all I wanted was to sleep.