Six forty seven, the sky still leaks your name,
neon rain on the windshield like the code you never sent.
I fold the hour small enough to pocket,
but it hums—analog ache—through the seams.
Headlights swim upstream, every reflection your ghost
in slow glass, repeating the goodbye I never answered.
Dashboard clock melts; I drive circles into dawn,
hoping the loop will wear your echo thin.