When the last train leaves the coast,
I still hear your voice in the wires,
a slow hum under midnight frost—
our names spelled by silent fires.
I keep the map you folded wrong,
creases like scars across my hand;
every mile I walk belongs
to a promise we never planned.
If the sky forgets the stars,
let the dark remember me—
a ghost in tune with your distant heart,
singing where the sea used to be.