I built you a signal
out of street lamps and nervous music,
looped through static.
You didn’t pick up,
but I called anyway.
At 2AM, every seat in the sleeper car
was a shrine
to the way you never arrived.
I sat facing backwards,
watching the past shrink.
They served coffee in paper cups
like some war was ending
and we’d all survived it,
except I hadn’t,
and you were never drafted.
The train took mountains
like you took compliments—
slowly, suspiciously,
then gone without a word.
You once told me
stars only look still
because they’re dying so far from us.
You made that sound romantic.
You made most things hurt kindly.
I mailed you a letter I didn’t write
from a station that doesn’t exist,
but I addressed it properly:
To the version of you
who still reads my words.
Now, I carry your name
like a fireproof match—
still whole,
still useless
in the rain.
And when I sleep,
I do so lightly,
in case you whisper something
through the wall
that I might still hear.
