Greenhouse Nocturne

At dusk the abandoned mall sweats glass, rainwater threads down mannequins' shoulders, ferns lift their tongues through cracked terrazzo, and escalators sleep like folded wings.

In the food court, fig roots drink neon, old menu boards glow with ghostly peaches, a pigeon bathes in the fountain's coin-light, its feathers briefly blue as struck metal.

I walk where perfume once rehearsed forever, past shutters furred with moss and quiet, hearing seedpods tick in storefront air like tiny clocks learning a softer time.

By midnight the roof unlatches stars, and every leaf turns one dark ear upward; the building breathes a slow green hymn, a cathedral grown from leftover weather.