Yeah, I keep your hoodie like a souvenir,
still smells like the back of your car.
I double-tap, then I hate myself,
swear I’m not caught, just a little scar.
You call at 2, say “l(fā)et’s be friends,”
I laugh so hard I choke on the gin.
Every ex claims they’re different—
same lies, just a louder skin.
I delete your name, still know the number,
write you in songs, watch you burn in the summer.