Memoirs of my boulevard

We orbit in fluorescent glow, two ghosts with coffee cups in hand, our dialogue a careful script— the project , the deadline , the plan . You laugh (a sound like breaking glass), I mirror back the hollow tone. The conference room is far too warm— or is it just my blood alone? We parse the past in subtext now: "Remember when…" means I still do. "You look well" means I'm not. The printer hums, and I count tiles— anything to outrun the thought of how your fingers once knew mine now highlighting separate lines. The workday ends. We pack our things. You say we'll "sync again next week." I nod. The wound, though neatly dressed, still weeps beneath this polished speech.

I wandered deep into your eyes, A maze of stars and hidden lies. Your touch, a flame both fierce and cold, Your words, a map I couldn’t hold. Adrift, I search for what was true, A love that binds, a path to you. But shadows linger, hearts betray— I’m lost in love, a castaway.