Pink Staccato Night

It’s a pink staccato night, flourescent lights floating under a dull moon. The beat of glossy heels on decaying crosswalks in the most alive chapter of night keep my eyelashes intertwined for the slightest of seconds and my fingers dancing around the possibilities of doubt. It’s the most electric time of night, strappy heels linked around fingers, high notes shouted across dusty snow, little slices of mirror left in the gutter, reflecting all the words we forgot to pack in our plastic compacts.

Whispy clouds from grainy embers escape your painted smokestack lips as we sit on the curb, among others with aching feet and fiery dreams slowly melting into reality. It’s the kind of dark that we’ve been told to fear, the kind of neon signs we’ve been told to run from, and it only makes us more alive as we scatter from red doors. Our sight is flickering but our eyes are open wide, and the concrete among the shadows below neon lights has never felt more like home.