2:14

“2:14”

I told myself not to text you.

So I didn’t.

But I wrote it out in Notes

just to see how it would sound.

You left your hoodie in my car.

I left it there

on purpose.

The city hums louder at this hour,

or maybe it’s just me —

wired on caffeine and feelings

I swore I grew out of.

Streetlight through the blinds

cuts the room into thirds.

I lie in the middle one,

somewhere between

forgive and forget.

I should sleep.

I should clean my kitchen.

I should stop wondering

if you still wear that cologne.

Instead I scroll,

half-hope I’ll see you with someone new,

half-hope I never do.

Everything feels like static.

Like I’m in the doorway

of a song I don’t know the words to,

but somehow,

I know it’s about me.