Some nights don’t end,
they just flatten—
like light stretched too thin
across fluorescence and glass.
Inside, a man in a suit
sips something lukewarm,
his posture squared
against thought.
Across from him, a woman
holds a cigarette
like the last flicker
of a conversation.
Nothing touches.
The counter curves
but offers no embrace;
the server watches the air
where someone once stood.
Outside: no doors, no way in.
On the street—an American werewolf
a silence
you can’t quite name.
And yet,
the light stays on.
Not warmly,
but insistently—
like someone still hoping
to be seen
through the glass
Listen
