It’s five fifty pm, on a Monday. Everything is red. In each of those vehicles sitting still in traffic, drenched in impatience, there are people with names and lives watching. Seeing the sun fall, they’re all realising that another day in their lives is over; That whether you won or lost, all you get to take home is yourself. For some of them this brings a quiet jubilation, for others it is slow hell.
This is why often, sunsets and sorrow go together.
Was that you inside your face? You said you had a name, but it wasn’t Midnight.
Carrying a house on the back you said you’re going to build a shack on promised land – it was free, and it’ll have a wife and windows facing the sunset, coloured walls, a bed and other sensible things.
You’ve remembered you have a son, who also has a little son— I guess breeding makes sense because when there are no more empty spaces left you never have to look at yourself again.
I wanted to ask why, but it’s a wolfish world and asking why is rude and unwarranted. So I said I’ll come by and visit you sometime.
I went left and you went right. The city moaned in smoke, heat and grime and under my feet the Earth started shaking because somewhere, somehow, a saint had died.