The night does not ask permission.

It spills over, breaking onto the streets,

a black tide curling against the neon edges,

soft-lipped, thick with quiet threats.

Somewhere, a coyote threads the silence,

low-bellied, starving.

Her ribs etched in hunger and asphalt.

Her howl swallowed before it can rise.

Somewhere, a woman walks home alone,

keys between her fingers,

her breath sharp as shattered glass,

The night presses in—an uninvited hand.

The stars, distant and unblinking,

bear witness to the weight of things-

the things that only breathe in the sun’s absence,

the things that slip through cracks,

in the earth,

in the sidewalk,

in the hellish in-between

And wait.

The street lamps purr with a low electric grief,

casting pools of counterfeit safety,

but even in the glow,

shadows grow long, insatiable.

Long enough to hold a name.

Long enough to whisper one back.