Mysteries of the Night

No one sees the open tabs on midnight screens,

where half‑typed confessions hover in drafts

and courage lives in read receipts.

Streetlamps pulse like unread texts

while confidence blooms in the glow of lock‑screen notifications.

In these hours we chase danger and desire—

a double‑tap that sparks an affair,

a DM that tastes like true love,

anxiety pinging like an overdue alert.

By dawn you’ll realize sleep ghosted you.

We sink toes into sand,

cans of seltzer clinking in our hands,

a shuffled playlist murmuring secrets

we’d never speak under the sun.

Long drives on I‑95, windows down,

talking like we’ve got nowhere to be.

We switch drivers at empty gas stations,

bleary‑eyed but buzzing from too much caffeine and feeling.

She clocks out at three a.m.,

his phone finally unlocks,

and you’re tracing blue ticks

in a room lit by every overhead bulb.

Our best moments flicker in pixel‑free shadow,

our worst fights spill under moonlit blinds.

By sunrise the logs erase themselves,

but their echoes haunt our waking hours—

ghosts of what we dared, what we lost,

in the mysteries of the night.