New Jeanland

I ran the long way home.
The echo always finds the quietest roads.

It’s not your name I’m fleeing,
not exactly.
It’s the shape of it,
half-swallowed in the throat of walls
that once heard you promise
to stay.

Shoes untied.
Breath sharp.
I don’t look back.

I stepped where you used to walk.
The pavement peeled underfoot,
like skin split open by heat
you swore would never burn me.

The walls don’t hold your voice.
They spit it back, warped.
Every silence here is smirking,
tasting my hope
like something gone sour.

I’ve stopped turning for footfalls
that never land.
The wind has lied before—
soft-spoken, familiar,
always empty-handed.

I want what knocks.
What stays.
What fogs the glass
and waits to be let in.
Not the echo
that learns my name
but won’t wear it.

The road behind me
is all ghost sound.
I walk forward now,
only reaching
for what solidifies.