When The City Sleeps

I had a dream the city was asleep and barely breathing. The air felt stagnant as I walked along bruised sidewalks where no birds sang the sun awake. I walked and I listened, for a siren, a drunk, for anything. Instead all I found was the scuff my shoes made on the pavement and the irregular breath of my lungs.

As I became aware of my hands dangling useless at my sides, nudging my hips as I walked,  I felt the blood there, pooled and moving.  Instead of continuing my trek I couldn't help but twitch my fingers, one by one, curling them into a fist and pressing crescent indentations into my flesh.

The hum of an engine came to my attention then, caught by a breeze chancing across broad empty streets. The crunch of stray rocks echo up my legs as I moved, keeping me aware of my body as I wandered. The car came and was gone in moments, a blip in my static surroundings.

I woke up and the smell of linen was pressed into my nose, soft and gentle like a caress to my senses. The air was stagnant as I crawled awake, sunlight bathing my room. There were still no birds, but the sound of the city, awake and alive, brought a smile to my lips.

"Good morning."