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"Stencil on the Pavement Nights"

Under the sodium lamps,

the street writes itself

in chalk and meltwater,

each line gone

before it’s read twice.

I keep moving —

not for warmth,

but so the glass façades

don’t catch me

standing still.

From an upper floor,

a spill of light

and the clink of thin‑stemmed glass

fall into the gutter’s

slow current.

I don’t look up long —

just enough to see

a hand lift,

a mouth shape a toast

I’ll never hear.

Between the hiss of tyres

and the snap of wind

around the corner,

I pocket a scrap

of torn poster:

colour, slogan,

half a face.

It waits there,

not as keepsake,

but as one more

mark in the stencil —

pressed into the wet concrete

before the night

sets hard.

.