We don’t talk anymore, like the echo lost in the bloom,
your name folds into the static of midnight perfume.
I scroll through the ghosts of our laughter, pixels frayed at the seam,
typing “I’m fine” to the moon, but the screen never gleams.
Selena’s whisper still haunts the air—
“Who’s gonna walk you through the dark?”—but you’re not there.
I hum the gap where your heartbeat met mine,
a cracked vinyl sunrise that won’t ever align.