Sleep, for the weak, but I’m wide in the hush
of a 3 a.m. sky where your echo still drips.
Neon through blinds paints the room like a bruise,
every pulse of the bass is the ghost of your lips.
I chase the drop, let it fracture my chest,
silver synths stitch the ache into lace.
If dreams are the exit, I rip off the labels—
I’ll rave in the ruins, dance slow through the ache,
awake in the glittering dark you left breaking.