i breathe in the sharp air.
it is night.
there is light flooding out of a nearby café,
and laughter too.
it is the only thing alive on this street.
i keep walking.
the rattling of a bike echoes off the sidewalk.
a woman speeds past, breathing hard.
when she turns the corner, she ceases to exist.
i keep walking.
across the street, someone opens a fifth-floor window.
a young man leans out.
there's the flick of a lighter,
for a second, a yellow glow lights his face.
then all i can see is the smoke he exhales.
then, not even that.
i keep walking.
the café is far behind me now.
the lights and laughter are no more;
the air is sharp, silent,
night.
i am alone.
i am the only thing alive on this street.
i keep walking.
a/n
this is about night paris and i am so so unsatisfied with the ending. ugh
YOU ARE READING
labyrinthine → poetry
Poetry"i think you were made to talk to the stars. (i think the stars were made to listen to you)" -m.v.
