I build a hush the width of a street and name it faith, because
the city keeps its clock in my ribs; if I stop, it stops, and I
pretend not to notice the moon rehearsing our phone-glow;
you could edit me softer, I say—but you won’t; I agree to want what I not
understand: the shape your silence makes when I stop typing. A comet clears its throat—your profile turns—only for a second—then the postcard grin: the sovereign of Death cruising the boulevard in a soft sedan. You wave as if I
were rideshare; you laugh at the meter running, how kindly you lean to adjust the mirror so I look endless.
The car stopped between two centuries, and I count each breath like tabs; the door opens for no one and for everyone—and yes, I get in. You don’t. You hum for me.
:: — 09.11.2025 — ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 