Silhouette’s Name

Shadows fall on a quiet street at dawn,

Windows glow with a soft, forgiving yawn.

Footsteps trace the rain that never spoke,

A doorway keeps a memory woke.

I walk past the corners we used to know,

Chalk on the pavement where our names would glow.

The city hums in a patient, weathered bruise,

I collect the echoes of your quiet truth.

A streetlamp flickers like a fading flame,

I chase the silhouette of your absent name.

Here in the mirror of a rain-washed pane,

I learn to listen to the lullaby of rain.

Hold me in the stillness between the hours,

Where the night forgets to hurry, and grows flowers.

If you’re only a trace in the mist I see,

I’ll gather you softly, you’re part of me.

A vending street sings with distant vinyl warmth,

Neon halos circle a bus stop form.

I trace your laugh on the back of a train,

A souvenir carved from a thunderous refrain.

The city breathes in rhythms old as stone,

I carry a token of our unnamed zone.

If memory is a river, I’m learning to row,

Past the orange signs of a life you used to know.

Hold me in the stillness between the hours,

Where the night forgets to hurry, and grows flowers.

If you’re only a trace in the mist I see,

I’ll gather you softly, you’re part of me.

Sometimes I think I hear your footsteps align,

With the heartbeat of buses, with the streetlight’s spine.

Not to wake the past, but to tell it I’ll stay,

To color the gray with a patient, stubborn day.

If love is a sketch that weather won’t erase,

I’ll keep it in my pocket, in a quiet grace.

Hold me in the stillness between the hours,

Where the night forgets to hurry, and grows flowers.

If you’re only a trace in the mist I see,

I’ll gather you softly, you’re part of me.

So I walk on, with your echo close inside,

A secret spring of color under wide night sky.

The image may be gone, but the song remains,

A gentle tide of you in the rain.