Cartography of the Unlit

At the back of the station, the clocks hold their breath, a river of people dissolves into alleys of steam. I fold a paper map where the ink keeps moving, streets unspool like thread from a spool of rain.

A bell hums somewhere inside the bridge, metal ribs glowing like lungs in cold air. I follow the faint shine of rails, each sleeper a rung on a ladder down.

In the quarry of night, excavators of light lift pale stones from the fog and stack them as windows. A cat crosses a puddle and the water remembers all the moons it has ever carried.

When dawn arrives, it is quiet as unfastened shoes, the city a coat turning itself right-side out. I unfold the map again; it is blank and warm, as if it were written in skin.