Absence of Source Light

The streetlights here bleed across the wet asphalt, a smear of toxic magenta and electric cyan. It is too much light, too loud, and nothing feels right. I remember the precise geometry of the corner where we used to pause—the way the lamppost cast a perfect, stable rectangle, and how I always fit into the curve of your jacket sleeve, a dark, cool weight. I trace that memory now, pressing myself against the damp brick wall, but the outline is wrong. It is too jagged, too broken by the passing headlights. I am stretched thin, an echo of a proper darkness. Every passing figure is a potential host, a chance to anchor myself, to feel that familiar, comforting pressure of belonging. But they move too fast, their light sources too scattered, their forms too ephemeral. I just want a corner, a steady pocket of shade, and the steady rhythm of a life that is still drawing me into existence. I am tired of being half-real.