and leather sneakers with half-tied laces.
Just bummin’ it toThe Andrew Show.
I scratched a broken heart into the building with my key three nights ago.
It’s where I lean to watch him,
right next to this cracked, concrete heart.
He’s wearing his black button-up tonight,
which means it’s a half-hour night.
In, out, gone again,
heading to some job I’ll never know about.
He doesn’t seem angry, only quiet
and tired,
with the cutest fucking yawn.
To anyone else,
he looks stood up, but isn’t ready to call it.
He sits the same way he does most nights:
elbow up,
the back of his hand pressed to his mouth,
the other wrapped loosely around the coffee.
There’s a worn but desperate cadence in him,
a song we never finished writing,
a guitar that can’t stop crying,
and he’s waiting on a stage for the next verse of me,
one leg stretched long under the table,
the other bent,
caught between staying and walking out.
Every time the door opens,
he looks up, still hoping it’s me,
pretending it won’t break him if it’s not.
Like maybe?—
just maybe?—
