i keep staring at the traffic lights,
asking how the signals of life...
what went wrong, what wishes could be true
. . . what moments, you could simply not experience?

i keep sipping my red velvet venti,
thinking how it tastes like an undreamt memory
of meeting my forever pal—
who knows me more than myself

people are crossing, i'm sitting like i'm in Paris cafes;
thinking love while talking to you,
and laughing at my dad jokes.
but maybe, if only you're a memory

. . . which breaks me like a matcha-latte
it's plain and infuriating to think of it.
i sit on these rusted chairs, everyday.
and pretend that you're here for me.

i longed to be seen, understood.
to experience our first's, capture our innocence—
embrace the idea of more than lovers;
and stayed like Bonnie and Clyde.

but then the traffic lights turned red,
people cross pavements, they keep serving coffees.
the coffee doesn't taste sweet as always;
just like this lifetime without the footprints of somebody.