We don’t talk anymore, like the moon forgot the tide,
your name’s just static on the screen at 2:09.
I still wear your hoodie—sleeves frayed, scent gone,
ghost of a laugh in every thread I pull on.
Radio whispers our song through the dash,
I mouth every lie we swore would last.
You’re kissing colors I can’t even see,
I’m stuck in black-and-white replaying me.
If silence is poison, we’re both overdosed,
two strangers sharing the same area code.