Cartography of Quiet Satellites

The river is a long mirror that refuses the sky, broken into scales by wind and the slow work of boats. Streetlamps drip gold into the current, and the bridges hold their breath like instruments.

Above, the satellites thread their thin white stitches, sewing the dark to itself with cold, patient light. I think of the phone in my pocket, warm as a pulse, a small planet where names still orbit, unlost.

On the far bank, a warehouse exhales the scent of ink; somewhere inside, maps are drying like leaves. Their countries are bruises of color, their borders a rumor, a catalog of almosts, of places that once were true.

I walk until the city thins to a gravel whisper. The night opens a drawer and offers silence, and I let it rest in my hands, a compass without a needle, pointing only toward the sound of my own steps.