Here, where the streetlights forget to shine,
I fold your name into a paper boat,
set it sailing down the gutter’s rhyme—
it drifts past midnight’s throat.
Here, the air still holds your laughter,
a ghost in the cigarette glow;
I breathe it in, a fragile after,
a spark that refuses to go.
Here, every echo wears your face,
a borrowed moon against the bricks;
I stay, counting pulse and pace,
learning absence like a new language’s tricks.