I’ve watched the neon bleed across the sidewalks and felt each pulse like a breath. The lights line up and then drift apart, and in that quiet shift the city writes its own short poems, fleeting but forever present.

Neon does dance in that brief, bright pause before it fades, like a shy actor bowing out of a spotlight. I’m not sure the city’s verses are about coffee or congestion, but there’s a quiet rhythm in those missed cups and slow traffic. Still, I give it a soft applause, like a quiet nod to the night’s quiet drama.