Calling your Name

City’s got a way of swallowing sound,

like it knows I’m out here,

knows I’m spilling my guts under flickering lights,

knows I’m calling for you across blocks that don’t care.

I’m walking through a maze of concrete and glass,

hands jammed in pockets, hoodie up,

trying to tune out the sirens,

the subway rumble like some deep heartbeat under the street.

You got me looking for signs in places we used to be,

like every corner’s an open tab,

some receipt for all the words we left unsaid.

The skyline looks the same, but it doesn’t.

You took something with you

that I keep reaching for in every damn reflection.

I keep seeing you in flashes:

on the corner, leaning against the wall,

smoke curling from your lips like a ghost,

that laugh hanging in the air like graffiti.

I know you’re gone,

but the city don’t stop reminding me

you were here.

I’m calling your name to the sidewalks,

letting it spill out in places we used to roam,

fighting like hell not to forget the sound,

the rhythm of it, bouncing off brick,

off the metal of street signs.

I don’t fit here, or anywhere,

just keep pacing the grid,

calling your name into the cold,

into the wind slicing through this city

waiting for it to bring you back home.