We were twenty-two and broke in Camden Town, Took coffee to go, watched the world slow down. You kissed me just before the light, Said love's a war — but we might survive the fight. In Shibuya, under neon skies, A million strangers passed me by. I saw your ghost in the corner light, But the signal changed — and I lost sight. I caught myself laughing in Montreal, With someone new, who knew nothing at all. We crossed a street near Parc Lafontaine, And just for a second, I said your name. There’s lines we cross, and lines we leave, Some in the rain, some in our grief. Some take us forward, some take us back, Some disappear and some leave tracks. But I still feel you in every step, Even where you never wept. I wrote you once from a flat in Rome, The kind of truth that doesn’t want to be known. Left it unsent in a drawer by the bed, Alongside all the words I never said. And there were crosswalks in every place, Like silent witnesses to grace. From late-night fights in Amsterdam, To shaky hands in Birmingham. They don’t ask, they don’t judge — Just carry us across the edge. Years later now, I saw your name, On someone’s screen — you’re not the same. Married in Maine, two kids, a life, And I stood still at a crossing light. There’s lines we cross, and lines we lose, And moments we don’t get to choose. Some fade like footsteps in the snow, Some stay behind, but never go. And every crosswalk brings me back, To who we were before the cracks. So if you ever feel the ground align, And stop beneath a painted line — Know somewhere, once, I did the same, And whispered low your fading name.
