Rust in the Rain

The city hums like a tired song

—one you never quite learn the lyrics to.

The pavement remembers

every argument your shoes never spoke out loud.

I once lived above a laundromat

where the machines spun like prayer wheels,

washing away sins no detergent could touch.

My neighbor said,

"Love is just debt you can never pay off in full."

I laughed until I believed him.

Every raindrop here has a name.

They fall like lost letters from people

who meant to say “I’m sorry”

but choked instead.

I've seen joy in a busted streetlight.

I've watched anger curl into smoke

from a father’s last cigarette.

Sometimes I write poetry on receipts,

because even failed purchases deserve to be remembered.

Sometimes I walk three blocks

just to hear a saxophone weep in an alley.

And that’s the blues, ain’t it?

Making music out of moments

you thought you’d never survive—

but somehow did.