Rue des trois frères，雨把月光縫進(jìn)石縫，

我數(shù)著窗影，像數(shù)你舊信里褪色的鐘；

風(fēng)把鋼琴的嘆息拖過門檻，

每一聲都落在空椅的懷表上，回彈成空。

你的名字，輕輕卡在鎖孔，

一轉(zhuǎn)，整條街就為我點(diǎn)亮一盞褪色的銅燈；

而我，把未寄出的吻折成紙船，

放進(jìn)水洼，讓它慢慢漂向——

你再也聽不見的，巴黎第三層寂靜。

Sleep, for the weak, but I’m wide in the hush

of a 3 a.m. sky where your echo still drips.

Neon through blinds paints the room like a bruise,

every pulse of the bass is the ghost of your lips.

I chase the drop, let it fracture my chest,

silver synths stitch the ache into lace.

If dreams are the exit, I rip off the labels—

I’ll rave in the ruins, dance slow through the ache,

awake in the glittering dark you left breaking.