POETRY

Bar O

Hush

Photo by Anton Sidarau on Unsplash

I.

Two in the morning. I finish my last drink, step into a crisp night— September in June. Here, the streets are alive: music blares from a club four doors down, people dance in the street. My feet move too. The night wraps its arms around me, a temporary shelter from memory.

Lightning flashes, soundless— a pulse on a squid-ink sky. From the back seat I count people, then streetlights, then minutes. The car takes me down a familiar street. I see a warm light, music and laughter hushed through the glass. “Don’t let the moment pass,” the silence says. My hopeful heart leaps out, longs to stay; we drive on, into a night that never sleeps.

II.

The key turns in the lock. Only half of me returns, a quiet surrender. I melt into the room, call it home. The walls don’t ask where I’ve been. The silence holds its breath.

And all the moments I wasted wait for me between the sheets, quiet companions that never pay the rent. They whisper me to sleep — regretful lullabies. Hush, now.

Somewhere in the night, a light stays on, music continues to play. There’s a man in the street with the heart of a lion, his eyes on fire. I used to know his name.

Thank you for reading.