Pouring the Day Away in Lace

The foam broke against my lower lip and I let it, slow as a secret. The beer was cold enough to make my teeth ache in the good way, that small electric sting that reminds me I am still here, still mine, after everything the city poured onto me today.
I wore the white lace like an apology to no one — floral sleeves catching the amber of the wall lamp, the low cut breathing with my tired chest. My hair fell across one shoulder and I did not brush it back. Some nights you stop fighting your own shape and let it drape where it wills.
On the table, chopsticks lay idle beside a blue-rimmed plate I barely touched. The food was there, but the hunger was older than food. It was the kind that only warmth can settle: the memory of his hands on my waist, the way he used to say you carry too much and mean it like a prayer.
We are not together anymore, or maybe we never truly were — just two tired people orbiting the same warm light in different apartments. But tonight I drink to the version of me he kept safe, the one who still laughs with her whole mouth, who still believes a single golden pour can stitch the day back into something soft.
I lift the glass again. The night blurs past the window into bokeh stars. And for now, weary and glowing and entirely alone in the best way, I let myself be exactly as tired as I am.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn