Yellow Like Regret

A bus spilled yellow across rain-slick streets,

bright as a warning I didn’t want.

That yellow—sharp against the gray,

a slap I can’t wash away,

something stuck in the cracks

of this cold city afternoon.

It glared back at me,

sticky and impossible,

a spill I stumbled over

like the words I never said,

like the things I tried to forget.