The night runs thick along the stone,

it hums a tune of blood and bone.

He walks where gutters start to weep,

where broken things pretend to sleep.

The air is sour, the pavements gleam,

the world dissolves into a dream.

He knows that car, that waiting face,

the way the dark forgets its place.

A mirror stares, too tired to care,

a name half-spoken, bruised with air.

The hand that fed now shakes with rust,

the air between them tastes of dust.

No word is said, no prayer begun,

the lamp above becomes their sun.

Its yellow light reveals the skin,

of what they were, of what’s within.

When silence cracks, the night looks on,

one shadow stays, the other’s gone.

The floor remembers every sound,

the city swallows what it’s found.

He lies and counts the stains that gleam,

each one a thought, each one a dream.

He laughs, but nothing leaves his throat,

his breath a ghost, his smile a moat.

The dawn arrives, but not for him,

its colour cold, its edges grim.

The street forgets, as streets are made,

to keep the bargains people trade.