Sorry, Patricia,
I left your name in the static of a cheap hotel radio.
We were champagne promises gone flat in the sunrise,
lipstick ghosts on the collar of my goodbye coat.
I still hear your laugh ticking like a cracked watch
under the bed where we buried our calendars.
I rewind the night, splice the moon into loops,
but every echo ends with the same soft click—
your door, my back, the hallway breathing ice.
I wear the scar like a vinyl scratch,
needle stuck on the word stay.