The City's Low Cello

The asphalt drinks the neon, a thirsty throat of grey and oil, where the streetlights bleed amber into the gutters of a Tuesday night.

Windows are clouded cataracts, veiling the quiet breath of sleepers while the wind unravels the silence of a thousand locked doors.

We are ghosts of our own making, treading softly on the silvered pavement, leaving no footprints, only the scent of damp wool and old electricity.

The city hums a low, wet note, a cello played by the passing tires, vibrating through the soles of boots until the morning dissolves the fog.