Cartography of a Sleeping City

I walk the late streets as if unfolding a paper map, streetlights pinning down corners with warm brass tacks, each crosswalk a seam the city stitched in its sleep. A bus exhales, a metallic whale surfacing and sinking.

Windows glow like aquariums, quiet and blue, behind glass, small worlds drift in slow rotations— a kettle warming, a hand searching for a book, a plant leaning toward the hum of the refrigerator.

Above, the train lines hum a thin, electric vow, their cables braided with the night’s unread letters. I trace the skyline’s hem where cranes rest like herons, and feel the river carry every street’s reflection downstream.

At the edge of dawn the map folds itself back, alleys slip into pockets, rooftops erase their names. I mark the final margin with a breath and keep walking, listening to the city turn its page.