Verse by @kessler.groove

i wrote your number on my palm and washed my hands i am learning to be a room with the curtains open i am practicing being the kind of quiet you can stand i still set the table for the ghost of us

i love you in the tense that has no word somewhere a phone rings and nobody is worried i wore your city like a borrowed coat every train sounds like leaving from here

there is a version of us that stayed we made a home out of almost i buried the argument in the yard i am the last one at the party fixing the lights

the bus came and i did not get on i keep the receipts of everything i felt