Three nights without the weight of sleep

Three nights without the weight of sleep,

I drift where streetlamps fail,

underneath the cracked skin of the city.

Rain falls in starts and stops,

a stuttered rhythm on rusted pipes.

Concrete breathes damp and cold,

a scent of metal and forgotten things.

A cigarette butt crushed beneath my boot,

a soggy relic, forgotten and ignored.

I watch water thread silver across the asphalt,

like veins pulsing slow beneath tired skin.

There’s no home beneath this bridge,

only the silence between drops,

the slow drip of everything unheld,

slipping away in puddles.