Ooh,
it's 900 p.
m.
Your mark's still warm.
Same old chair,
but the room feels torn.
Half red book,
screen glow on your face.
Glow on your face.
You check that chat and you check it again.
It's always 900 p.
m.
When I miss you.
Same ceiling,
same fence,
same view.
clock and stuck between then and soon.
Every night,
every night it's always I want you.
Same questions I circle back to.
I call you answer to every time.
Every time it's time,
our photos tilt on the fridge door frame.
Your key still hangs on the little red nail.
I talk out loud to an empty hall.
Say your name just to hear it fall.
It's always 900 p.
m.
when I miss you.
Same ceiling,
same fan,
same view.
Clock hand stuck between then and soon.
Every night,
every night,
it's always 900 p.
m.
And I want you same questions I circle back to.
If I call,
would you answer to every time?
Every time.
It's not the end.
And now you