Archive of Falling Light

At the edge of the city the rain rehearses, small coins of light tapping the tin roofs, and the gutters learn a slow, silver grammar.

We walk through steam rising from the sidewalks, breathing in the scent of iron and basil; every puddle keeps a secret photograph.

A bus sighs open and folds us inside, windows smeared with halos and fingertips, and the streetlights blur into loose constellations.

Later, the sky unbuttons its last blue, clouds drift like envelopes without addresses, and we read the dark for a return address.