I still see your jacket in the backseat light,
Autumn leaves spinning like we had all night.
You said, “It’s nothing,” but your eyes betrayed—
I kept the scarf, still smells like rain.
We were eighteen, driving blind,
Promises whispered, then left behind.
Now I trace the map of every scar,
Still stuck there, right where you are.
It was rare, it was real—
But you let it slip, let it steal.