On Instagram, I’m scrolling through your posts and double-tapping, resurrecting ghosts where none belong. I still know every word we sang in the dark tunnel, drunk—Oh, Lord!
We haven’t talked in years. What’s left to say? I’m different now, I take five pills a day. My copied key. New locks on every door. I didn’t know I needed them before.
Nobody’s fault but mine. It’s been too long to matter now. But when I hear that song the past flips over like a coin in the air, time spins like a bottle—and you’re right there
beside me, howling hard on the last train— until the music stops. You’re gone again. It’s not the life we planned when we were young. Our past left burning on the tip of my tongue.