A coffee swells, in waxy skin
The city squints through windowed glare,
She’s creased inside a wrinkled dress.
Her ghost hangs limp in laundered air,
A payphone rang, one ghost, one ring.
No one moved. We all just knew.
Outside, a siren tried to sew
a creeping cut. Felt overdue.
Fluorescent hum, a migraned god.
My coat spins slow behind the glass.
Zipper beats like trapped bird wing.
A sock grins dumb from wire racks.
This street is lined with yellow stain,
lights too bright for folks this small.
I sipped, I burned, I thought her name,
then let it drift in urban sprawl.
The dryer stops. A broken chime.
Just silence, stretching like a neck.
I crack, not loud. Just wide enough
to feel the break beneath my breath.
She’s someone else’s Sunday now
in fresh-washed light, her hair tucked neat,
Vanilla steam and honeyed bread
laughing soft in kitchen's heat.
Here my soles are worn too thin,
A half-full cup, a sleepless eye,
no grace, no hand to lift away,
this curb, this wind, this grayer sky.
And where I am, that’s all there is.
No turning arc. No healing bend.
But I’ll get up. I’ll fold. I’ll walk.
And maybe that’s enough to mend.
