The Silver Veins of Cobalt Street

The sky is a bruised plum, leaking its juice into the gutters where the neon signs dissolve in shimmering, oily circles.

Each drop is a cold reminder of the heat that rose from the asphalt, now quenched by the grey curtain drawing itself across the skyline.

Windows blink like heavy eyes, watching the umbrellas bloom in a sudden garden of nylon, scattered across the wet pavement.

The city breathes in petrichor, a sigh of iron and damp earth, as the last bus hums its low tune through the rivers of the night.