I must come back through the smoke of the dream,
past the bridge where your name still trembles in neon.
The night peels like old paint from my guitar—
every chord a fingerprint I left on your sky.
Even the moon is a wound I keep reopening,
its silver thread stitching shadows to my ankles.
I walk the tide back into its shell,
whispering the syllable of home you lost in the rain.
If the world ends before I reach your door,
let this echo be the map that returns my pulse to yours.