Oh, darling, it always is—
a silver ghost in the drizzle,
crawling like regret through traffic,
while your shoes soak and your phone dies.
It’ll arrive just as you give up,
doors hissing open like a sigh,
driver’s face blank as yesterday’s forecast.
Still, you climb in—
because hope, that stubborn thing,
prefers wet seats and bad timing
over walking home alone.