The empty lot stretches a canvas of gray

The empty lot stretches, a canvas of gray,

each line a reminder of moments that fray.

The parking meter ticks like a clock in reverse,

each second a pulse, a universe terse.

Waiting for someone who may never arrive,

I watch the numbers count down, struggle to thrive.

The weight of this silence is heavy and long,

and I can’t help but wonder where I went wrong.

The sun sinks low, casting shadows that creep,

as I sit in this stillness, the memories seep.

A moment of patience, lost in the air,

will they come back, or am I just a spare?

The echoes of longing wrap tight around me,

each tick of the meter, a measure of free.