Cartography of a Sleepwalk

A city folds itself into my pockets, streetlights like coins warming the lining. I walk the seam between sleep and pavement, where the night hums in soldered wires.

A bakery exhales to the avenue— yeast, ember, the soft thunder of doors. My footsteps learn a new grammar, a language of crossings and quiet errands.

At the river, bridges float like thought bubbles, sketches the water edits as it goes. I lean down, catch the cold syllables, and let them melt against my tongue.

Morning arrives in a thin, blue envelope. Birds open it with their small knives. I wake with crumbs of map in my hand, and a route that only my heartbeat knows.