Mr. Broken Heart,
you’re humming our song in an empty bar,
neon spelling her name like a scar.
Every bourbon beat drops salt on the wound
where her ghost still sways in silver shoes.
You trade tomorrow for yesterday’s chord,
strumming the cracks in a cracked rear-view mirror.
Tonight the jukebox moon is a liar—
promising tides that never return her.
Close your tab, tune the silence,
let the last chord die unheard;
even shattered strings learn
how to hold a tune when the heart is gone.