I walk through the street where you used to live,
hoping if I might see you again.
But you don’t live here anymore,
you aren’t here right now.
I pass the house that once was yours and mine.
I’m drowning in tears,
I’m not fine.
People say right now you’re living in a penthouse far away from here
and far away from me.
I catch the old neighbors looking at me with frowns carfed into their faces.
It is true,
since you’ve been out of my life,
I’ve never moved to another place.
I guess I’m still not over you.
I put on my denim jacket, the one you used to wear.
I feel the harsh wind blowing against me
and I feel the ghost of you in my old car,
I see the ghost of you in my rearview mirror.
I go to the grocery store 10 minutes away from your old house.
I buy a bottle of Pinot Noir (your favorite wine)
and drink straight from it even though I know I have to drive home.