The Gilded Edge of Sleep

The fog pulls back its grey wool from the ankles of the skyscrapers, revealing the bruise-colored asphalt still cool from the weight of the moon.

A single window ignites, a square of gold in a cliff of glass, where the first kettle begins its hiss and the day’s breath is still a secret.

Traffic lights cycle through their lonely colors, casting red and green ribbons onto the wet street, waiting for the swarm of tires to tear the silence into jagged pieces.

Light spills over the horizon's lip, a slow honey coating the brick and steel, turning the mundane geometry of the rooftops into a map of amber and long, thin shadows.