A city that sleeps

Tucked in for the night

Phoenix sleeps. Downtown deserted. The train stops at midnight, tucking itself into monster’s rest. When we lay in our dreaming beds, the rocking ripples into longer days, like the ocean’s frequency hangs in our minds even after we’ve left her. You’re that way. I taste salt. Smell you around street corners. Where do you exist if not inside me?

Stretched over seats, a man curls into himself like the child he was. I imagine his mother tucking him back to innocence, a place none of us stayed long. Life is a good hunter. And you, were always so scared awake, each dream turned into terrors. I saw it in your eyes, the dark pin until your pupils dilated looking at open sky, open water, anything vast where you couldn’t hide. Freedom felt worse than bedding lies.

Outside, a homeless woman rests against a work in progress; the building gutted inside, will rise. A city measures triumphs by blocking sky. We are all the empty lots waiting for coffee shops. Blips in time. How long can we ride? This is the last train. I’d sleep but my hair is graying.

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