11:30

11:30. I wait on the stone step where our unsaid promise lived. This past year I’ve learned the color of your absence — brown curtains, always brown; I’ve seen their folds more than I’ve seen your face. I want to see you. I want to say the right sorry, but I hurt you — that truth sits like a stone in my heart. So my punishment is simple: roam these lamp-lit streets and long in public, mistake fabric for a hand, and carry the memory home in my throat.