I try to hold the night inside my hands
but it slips like smoke through every promise.
I try to paint your name across the quiet,
the letters fade before the sky admits
we were almost more than echo.
I try to breathe without the weight of after,
lungs full of ghosts in 4/4 time.
Every chord I strike is still a question:
if love’s a word, why can’t it rhyme with goodbye?