As the tiring night quietly forgot
The dying of the sun
rose the splendid moon
to bless the night

3 am on an October night
As I opened the windows
overlooking the treacherous life
of a man in his early sixties

a life of inks and papers
a newspaperman
In the digital age

of rushing days
and hectic afternoons
late-night cafes
and morning blues

I remembered
every tick and clang
of the quiet sound of travelling time

Sundays are made for God and for poetry.
For they both can see us fully through.

I was on the edge
not of a street,
but of everything.
The kind of tired that sleep can’t touch.
The kind of stillness that feels like disappearing.

And then
a glance.
Soft, unplanned.
A stranger with blue eyes that didn’t ask,
just saw.

No words, no story,
only silence between us
that somehow said,
“Stay.”

One stop away
that’s all.
But in that moment,
it could have been another universe.

I didn’t fall in love.
I fell into the possibility
that maybe, just maybe,
life isn’t done with me yet.