She walks where night forgets itself
beneath flickering signs,
past alleyways that hold their breath.
Not quite seen,
but the traffic hushes
when her heel touches the curb.
Streetlights spill down her spine
like a chapel of small suns,
and puddles ripple with memory
not rain.
She doesn’t look at you,
but you are already unraveling
Her name no longer fits your mouth,
your past left leaking behind her steps.
Shopfront mannequins turn to watch.
Buskers miss a beat.
Dogs whimper low like sinners in pews.
Something shifts.
Paint peels. Neon falters.
No perfume, no sound
just the scent of once-loved letters,
and a warmth like someone you mourned
standing just behind you,
never speaking.
She walks on.
Her dress, midnight silk
stitched with the hush of every goodbye.
Her face
you remember it wrong
every time you try.
Like smoke, or poetry,
or the space between subway doors.
Coins clatter.
Lights change.
You blink
and she is
gone.
Still,
you swear the sky
tastes different
since she passed.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
May 2025
She Who Never Stays