The Wet Calculus of Streets

The asphalt drinks the gray, a chalkboard of damp intersections where the tires leave fleeting signatures in the language of static and spray.

Each puddle is a shallow mirror, holding the neon of a tired bodega, where the green and red blur into a watercolor of fractured geometry.

The wind is a cold architect, rearranging the scaffolding of the night, as the last commuters move like ghosts through a shifting blueprint.

Everything is calculated in reflections— the distance between a shadow and a step, the way the streetlamps hum a low, electric prayer for the morning.