i never tap your name on weekdays.
not when i'm working.
not when i need to keep my head clean.
not when there's meetings, reports, bills—
not when she's asking,
"are you okay?"
because i won't be.
if i see your eyes
i'll fucking drown.
and i can't afford to sink on a tuesday.
but saturday—
oh, saturday,
i'm ready.
i grab my phone like it's a weapon
or maybe a key
to unlock every fucking scar
i pretend doesn't exist.
i type your name like a ritual.
slow.
deliberate.
like it hurts
(because it does).
and there you are.
a clip—thirty seconds of you singing Skinny Love.
your daughter laughing in the background.
you smiling like you've never been broken.
and i go back.
twenty-two.
coffee and marlboro.
your eyes.
your voice.
your voice.
your fucking voice.
i drink,
of course i drink.
this isn't a sober tradition.
vodka burns like memories
that won't fucking die.
i watch you live without me
like i was never needed.
and maybe i wasn't.
but on saturdays,
i scroll
because it's the only time i allow myself
to remember
that you were real.
that we were real.
and that i'm still here,
breathing without you.
but barely.