Late Night Station

Flickering bulbs hum overhead,

cold light spilling on cracked concrete.

Empty pumps stand like sentinels,

waiting for ghosts that never come.

The smell of oil and stale smoke

clings to the cracked windowpanes.

A lonely place holding its breath,

a silence sharp as a snapped wire.

No cars. No voices. Just the hum

of neon dying in the dark,

a hollow pulse beneath the night—

quiet as a paused heartbeat.