Under the Bridge, Rain

Three nights without sleep—

I wander beneath cracked concrete.

The rain begins—soft at first,

then stops—then starts again,

a hesitant tapping

like a restless heart.

Fluorescent light flickers,

a weak buzz spills onto wet pavement,

casting halos that bend and shift

like ghosts in the wet.

Puddles hold the smell of rust,

asphalt soggy and cold.

I walk slower, breath shallow,

as the world presses close,

tight and unyielding,

and the rain breaks

against my skin,

a quiet weight,

an unfinished sentence.