The Reservoir's Breath

The city folds into its own reflection, a thousand windows blinking in the slick of the street. Everything smells of iron and old stone, the scent of a story refusing to be washed away.

Tires hum a low, electric cello, drawing lines of light through the pooling dark. We are ghosts in the periphery of headlights, defined only by the spray and the silence that follows.

A rusted gate remembers the touch of hands, now long gone into the machinery of years. The rain is a quiet clock, ticking against the glass, counting the seconds until the pavement is dry again.

Wait for the moon to pull the clouds apart, to reveal the sky as a bruised fruit, heavy and sweet. We will walk until the architecture becomes a dream, and the only thing left is the rhythm of our breath.