Didn’t mean to wear your shirt again, but it was clean, and it still fits wrong. The sleeves hang heavy, smell like rain and cheap cologne, like the night before we said too much. There’s a crack in my phone where your name used to sit, I scroll past it slow, like maybe it’ll light up. I walk the long way home again — I tell myself it’s exercise. It’s not. It’s the way the air folds when I think of you. I only find you when I’m lost, when I stop trying to be found. Every road that leads me off — you’re the echo in the sound. I only find you when I’m lost, when the noise becomes a prayer. If I ever make it home, you won’t be there. The bar’s too loud to think, so I let it think for me. Someone’s laughing in a key I almost recognize, I drink until the sound goes flat. The mirror in the bathroom doesn’t ask, it just waits for me to lie again. I tell it I’m okay, watch the condensation roll down like a shrug. I only find you when I’m lost, when I stop trying to be found. Every road that leads me off — you’re the echo in the sound. I only find you when I’m lost, when the noise becomes a prayer. If I ever make it home, you won’t be there. The cab smells like someone else’s perfume, driver keeps the radio low. I lean my head against the glass, pretend it’s the shoulder I remember. City blurs by — red lights, wrong turns, tiny bits of truth hiding in static. Morning hits like it owes me nothing. I pour coffee, spill some, watch it spread into a map on the counter. Looks a lot like you. I wipe it up before it dries. I only find you when I’m lost. And I’m always almost there.
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