Syllables of Rain

The asphalt drinks the heavy grey, a slow percussion on the glass. The city softens at the edges, becoming a watercolor of itself.

Neon bleeds into the gutters, electric veins of red and blue pulsing through the shallow streams that carry cigarette ash to the sea.

We are ghosts in yellow slickers, treading where the thunder hums. The wind carries a scent of ozone and the iron breath of the subway.

Wait for the silence to return, not as a void, but as a rest between the long, cold sentences spoken by the sky.