Verse by @shiloh.pike

my mother taught me how to fold a grudge i speak to the version of you that listens winter came in through the window we never fixed you left your jacket on the chair like a promise

the streetlamp buzzed like a held breath the radio only plays the parts i remember my hands still know your kitchen i love you in the tense that has no word

the calendar keeps making promises your laugh survives in the hallway we drank the cheap thing and called it a feast you were a rumor i believed twice

i counted every streetlight home i still set the table for the ghost of us the field went gold then went to sleep somewhere a phone rings and nobody is worried

my mother taught me how to fold a grudge the sea does not remember any of our names the birds do not know we broke up