I left an earring on your nightstand like a dare, like a dog whistle only I could hear, like a lie I could almost live with, like a warning you didn’t read.
You wrote me like you were killing time. I let you. I was tired— tired of being the intermission between things you actually wanted, tired of holding out my hands just to catch the sound of you leaving.
It was raining the next day. Of course it was raining. The whole city smelled like last chances wrung out in the gutter, like a bouquet dropped when someone realized it wouldn’t change anything,
You said, "Take care of yourself." And I did— by breaking every mirror that still showed me your mouth, by smashing every reflection that looked like hope.
There's a version of me still waiting at that train station— wearing the wrong jacket, gripping the wrong book, mistaking longing for directions, carrying promises like ballast. I'll know it's you by the way my spine recognizes the disaster before my eyes do.
I hope she never learns. I hope she keeps looking up every time the wind shifts. I hope she believes in arrivals. Even when no one steps off.