Night’s White Space

Nights when all you hear is the broken syntax of stripped cars and gutter slumlords trying to sell you a noose as a necktie.

Nights when alleyways are robbed of memories and second-guessing rents out the mind’s rooms to strange thoughts.

Within this darkness—the white space between all the barely uttered emotions.

Here, you’ll discover a plague of grace, the duende of blackbirds transforming midnight’s ash into song.

Nighthawks murmuring a million and one names for a moon that offers itself as a loving mirror.

So beautiful every soul that wanders these desperate evening streets.