I’m mad that you’re still in my head,
mad that your side of the bed
won’t cool, won’t forget the shape of your silhouette.
I’m mad every clock in this house
ticks your name too loud,
mad that the floor still remembers
the sway of your walk,
mad that these lips still rehearse
conversations that died on the porch.
I’m mad that “sorry” never showed up dressed in your voice,
mad that I’m still checking my phone
like the moon might text back.
I’m mad that love turned into a lesson
and I still can’t pass the test—
mad that I’m mad,
’cause it means I ain’t over you yet.