Urban Ghosts

Neon flickers on wet pavement streets, 

Footsteps chase echoes that nobody meets. 

Concrete sighs, steel bones groan, 

City lights burn, but I walk alone.

Smoke curls from alleyways like fingers, 

Grasping at coats and ankles, 

Whispering names I don’t know, 

Calling me to places I should avoid.

Windows stare with glassy eyes, 

Mirroring faces that shift and leer. 

A shadow detaches from the brick, 

Moves too fast, too human, yet not.

My breath hitches; the air turns thick, 

As sirens wail in the distance, 

But the sound is wrong, too hollow— 

A mimic of life, a mockery of rescue.

I hear it then—ragged, dry laughter, 

Scraping along walls, over puddles, 

A voice that knows my name before I do, 

Promising a kiss colder than frostbite.

I run. Shoes slap against the slick streets, 

Neon bleeding red and blue in puddles. 

Every corner twists, every alley bends, 

And the city itself seems to conspire.

A hand, thin as paper, hooks my shoulder, 

Spinning me into the darkness between buildings. 

I look up—eyes blacker than midnight, 

Grinning wide enough to swallow me whole.

And then—nothing.

Only the echo of my own footsteps, 

Slapping against wet pavement, 

Ending at a pool of crimson that wasn’t there before.

Somewhere, the neon hums, And the city waits for the next soul to wander alone.