Autumn leaves, like faded letters,
drift across the old café;
your laughter lingers in the steam
of a cooling cappuccino.
I trace your name in condensation,
watch the dusk erase it slow—
each golden ghost that spins away
carries a syllable of goodbye.
The boulevard smells of rain and woodsmoke,
guitars repeating the same minor chord;
I walk until the streetlights blur,
collecting every leaf you touched,
pressing their veins inside my chest
where summer still bleeds green.