Scintillating fire, a web of man, promise.

Fire is man made, created by the abuse of nature, a discovery flighting to evil.

The bombs are distant, the fireflies rain down, the children are gone.

A sonder feeling, a somber feeling.

Streetlights are the stars we have replaced.

Man is the ruler, natural light a discarded litter.

There’s no soul, but in a warm orange, an apricot tang that haunts your lips, I can feel one.

The sun hasn’t risen, the moon is missing, and the stars are falling.

The light is lulling.

My body and eyes heavy and heady as I take a turn in my mother’s car, the scent of those late night returns in which there was one moment where child you awoke because good god, you knew those streetlights and you heard the soft clicking of the car, a soft ‘good morning and good night’.

The streetlights are a gentle introduction and conclusion that feels like a father’s head ruffles.