Spotted you by the corner store with a paper bag,

old band tee under a denim flag.

We traded jokes about a rent-thin past,

laughed at how the calendar ran too fast.

You said your train was late—“I’ve got a minute spare,”

I said, “I’ve got a borrowed car and open air.”

We traced the block like a drawn-by-hand map,

windows down, letting small talk lap.

If distance is a thread we can pull from the seam,

slide to the middle, meet me in-between.

Drift across the seat till space runs out,

let the dash glow soft while we figure it out.

Hands find home where the inches slip—

lean a little nearer till our pulses sync.

Da-da, da-da—zero gap,

da-da, da-da—zero gap.

Your jacket still remembers marker art,

tiny initials from a faded start.

I kept your postcard in a recipe book,

creased at the edge where I used to look.

The city changed its signs but not the street,

same brick walls, same scuffed concrete.

If time left crumbs we can follow back,

I’m game to trace them without a track.

If distance is a thread we can pull from the seam,

slide to the middle, meet me in-between.

Drift across the seat till space runs out,

let the dash glow soft while we figure it out.

Hands find home where the inches slip—

lean a little nearer till our pulses sync.

You: Fold the past like a paper plane.

Me: Aim for now and let it sustain.

You: Trade old blame for a cleaner page.

Me: Mark this hour like a quiet stage.

Drift across the seat till space runs out,

let the dash glow soft while we figure it out.

Hands find home where the inches slip—

lean a little nearer till our pulses sync.

Da-da, da-da—zero gap,

da-da, da-da—hold that map.