Six forty seven, the sky still leaks your name,

neon rain on the windshield like the code you never sent.

I fold the hour small enough to pocket,

but it hums—analog ache—through the seams.

Headlights swim upstream, every reflection your ghost

in slow glass, repeating the goodbye I never answered.

Dashboard clock melts; I drive circles into dawn,

hoping the loop will wear your echo thin.

falling through the hush of violet noon

your slowed breath loops like melted cassette

i follow the dust motes you left in mid-air

they glow, then forget

pixels of sun drip across my cheek

each second unbuttons, drifts to the floor

i’m half of a echo, you’re half of a sigh

we’re less, we are more

keep my name in the delay

let it spin, let it fray

展開更多 ▼