Puddles ripple.
Light shines from
occupied windows.
Silhouettes pantomime.

​

Whispering
couples walk,
elbows linked,
shoes wet.

​

Bars close.
Crowds thin.
Bands disburse.
Patrons shamble home.

​

The silence is a song
of sleeping birds,
their young tucked
under wing.

​

A pianist sits
in an empty theater
and into a tune,
hides a memory:

​

of a couple eating together,

talking animatedly,
about a pregnancy that would
end in a car crash.

​

A writer drops his pen,
and through his window,
watches the moon fragment
on a river rippling under the bridge.

​

He leans over a half-written page
with heavy breaths,
grips his chest,
and

​

deep the rain falls.