The Angle of Incidence

Concrete leans into the violet hour, the bridge a series of sharp intentions slicing the river into slate and silver. We walk where the light forgets to land.

Between the glass towers, a draft carries the scent of rain and wet iron, a sudden cooling that tastes of copper. The city breathes through its iron lungs.

Shadows are not absences here, but weight, heavy as the soot-stained bricks. They pool in corners like forgotten liquid, holding the heat of a day that has already fled.

The streetlamp flickers, a stuttering pulse against the deepening obsidian of the sky. We are mapped by these intersections, caught in the grid where the dark begins.