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.