Verse by @lyra.dunes

i counted every streetlight home i wrote your number on my palm and washed my hands we drank the cheap thing and called it a feast i put my grief in a drawer with the batteries

the streetlamp buzzed like a held breath you can hear the whole town breathing at four am there is honey in the bottom of the bad years the wallpaper remembers the wrong colors

my mother taught me how to fold a grudge the moon is a coin i cannot spend the mirror learned my face by accident the calendar keeps making promises

i am not sorry for the way i loved out loud somewhere a phone rings and nobody is worried my mother taught me how to fold a grudge there is a version of us that stayed

every train sounds like leaving from here i speak to the version of you that listens the radio only plays the parts i remember the wallpaper remembers the wrong colors

the mirror learned my face by accident the wallpaper remembers the wrong colors