Day 7, or maybe it's 70. The city keeps its time, indifferent to my lack of clockwork. The neon signs bleed across the wet pavement—a sickly, electric blue that used to be refracted by your coat. I remember the specific shade of the yellow light from the corner diner, the one that always caught the edge of your hair just so. I used to simply be attached to you, a perfect negative imprint. When you finally slipped away, it wasn't a sudden thing, but a slow, draining fade, like ink dissolving in rain. Now I am just... loose. I drift along the gutters, following the heels of strangers, hoping for the right angle, the right confluence of light and solid form. They are so brightly lit, so aggressively present. They don't know how to be empty. I just need a silhouette that understands the necessity of the negative space. I just need a place to rest, a new edge to define me against.
static · tender