The Indigo Weight

The streetlamps hum a low electric drone, casting amber circles on the cooling asphalt. Somewhere, a shutter rattles in its frame, a syncopated heartbeat for the empty street.

Steam rises from the belly of the grates, ghosts of the afternoon's frantic pace dissolving into the indigo weight of the sky. The traffic lights blink for no one.

A solitary taxi rounds the corner, its tires whispering a secret to the puddles. The city breathes in brick and cold iron, resting its heavy head on the river's edge.

Shadows stretch and knit themselves together under the eaves of the silent warehouses. The moon is a pale coin dropped in a jar, watching over the clockwork of the dark.