April rain, apricot petals on my tongue,
your name drips through the cracked hourglass—
I catch it with both hands, but it still leaks.
We bloom sideways in the metro mirror,
two strangers wearing the same yesterday.
The tannoy says the line is delayed;
I rewrite the map with the ink of your blink.
April ends, yet the station loops your echo—
a petal station, a ghost train of maybe.