They say shadows are just the absence of light, but they are wrong. Absence is passive. I am an active thing, a stain that stretches and pulls when the light source moves. I used to be anchored. My edges were defined by your specific silhouette, the way you leaned against the glass, the slight slump of your shoulders when you were tired. Now, the edges are frayed, bleeding into the wet pavement and the harsh, buzzing glow of the neon signs. I am adrift in the geometry of this city, a smear of deepening indigo on asphalt that smells of rain and ozone. I walk past couples laughing, past late-night workers huddled under umbrellas, and I try to mimic them. I try to stretch into the perfect companion shadow, the kind that belongs. But they just see a smudge, a distortion in the periphery, and they walk right past. I just need a corner, a defined curve, a living vessel to attach to. I need someone to make me real again, even if it's just for the night.
static · bright