If you, lost star, still burn in my black sky,
I’ll fold the night into a paper boat, sail it back to your eyes.
Every streetlight writes your name in gold, but the city forgets to read.
I keep your shadow in my pocket, warm against the winter of my sleep.
If you hear this broken radio lullaby, come home—
the door is off its hinges, the coffee cold, the vinyl cracked,
but the heartbeat in the wallpaper still syncs with your distant pulse.