It’s really sad, the way the neon dies,
Last call laughter caught in your throat like a lie.
We danced on the cracks of a promise half-made,
Now the jukebox repeats every word we betrayed.
Your coat on the chair still holds the night’s rain,
I trace its wet seams, pretending it’s pain.
It’s really sad—how clocks keep moving on,
Leaving the echo of you when the music is gone.