I walk where the city loosens its grip,
where streetlights thin into a pale confession.
The gate exhales behind me.
Even my footsteps seem unsure
of their right to exist.
Marble shoulders lean toward the moon.
Names shine briefly, then retreat.
I read them like unopened letters,
each date a locked room
I will never enter.
My thoughts wander ahead of me,
barefoot, reckless.
They ask why I am still here
when so many have mastered
the art of leaving.
The wind rehearses apologies in the trees.
Dry leaves scrape the paths
like unfinished sentences.
I answer no one,
yet everything listens.
Loneliness does not hurt here—
it sits beside me, well-mannered,
folds its hands on cold stone.
We share the silence
as if it were inherited.
Somewhere between two graves
I almost believe I am transparent,
a passing idea, a breath the night forgot
to take back.
When I turn toward home,
the moon follows at a distance.
Behind me, the dead keep their secrets.
Ahead of me, my life waits—
quiet, unlit,
still willing to be walked into.
