Nighthawks.

The diner hums like a tired heartbeat,

fluorescent veins buzzing under glass.

The street outside sleeps,

but inside —

we’re still awake,

still orbiting each other across chipped porcelain moons.

Your fingers curl around the mug,

and I swear I can feel the heat from here,

somewhere between metaphor and muscle memory.

We’ve been here before —

not this place, maybe,

but this hour,

this ache disguised as conversation.

You stir your coffee like you’re buying time.

I sip mine just to stay in it.

The steam ghosts between us,

a soft bridge no one names.

Outside, the streetlight blinks once,

decides against it,

stays green for eternity.

We talk about nothing,

which is to say,

we talk about everything.

Our laughter fogs the glass

and I wonder if the world will notice

two silhouettes still glowing at 2 a.m.

Maybe this is what forever really means —

not the promise,

but the pause.

Not the flame,

but the warmth that lingers after.

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