"meet me where the seagulls..." the ink blurs here,

smudged by a tear that dried before it reached the end.

The chair by the window still holds your sweater,

cotton soft with the salt of last summer's beach.

You said we'd fly south when the first frost came.

Now the phone stays silent. The coffee grows cold.

I trace the empty side of the bed, where your warmth

lingers like a question with no answer.

The moon peeks through the curtain, just as it did

that night you laughed and said, "I'll love you longer than stars."

But stars burn out. And so did we.