Tin Roof Observatory

On the tin roof, rain rehearses in silver knuckles, counting the rooms we have left behind. Streetlights bloom in puddles like small moons, and every window becomes a throat of amber.

A train goes by, carrying its chain of brief countries, faces lit blue by borrowed weather. Someone laughs under an awning; the sound lifts, then folds itself into the steam above a food cart.

I stand where the alley opens to the river, watching current drag neon into trembling ribbons. The wind smells of wet concrete and orange peel, as if the city has just been cut open and offered.

Tonight is not a promise, only a tuning fork: a thin bright note held between thunder and dawn. Even the dark has texture, grain, and temperature, and my pulse learns the meter of distant wheels.