Evening gathers like a shawl,
threads of gold and blue stitched at the hem.
A bus exhales its last passenger,
and a dog somewhere announces the dark.
Windows hold small galaxies —
lamps blink like tired constellations,
faces in frames softened by the glass
remembering laughter that happened once.
I stand on the pavement of possibility,
where the air tastes of rain and old paper,
and every doorway seems to promise
a story waiting, restless as a moth.
Tonight the city breathes in slow stanzas,
and I learn, again, the grammar of leaving:
how light gives itself to shadows,
how something tender can be kept and still be let go.
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