Paper Moons and Neon Lights

Under a sky stitched with paper moons,
dreams dangled like forgotten kites,
the city hummed, low and constant,
with this quiet but persistent hymn of neon lights.

I found you there,
in a corner where the dark felt soft,
where the air smelled like old coffee
and someone else's regrets.
Your laugh wasn’t loud-
it was sharp, quick, like a match strike.
It caught me off guard.

You talked like the night was your language,
like you’d memorized every shadow’s shape.
You said you wanted to leave,
but that the city had its hooks in you,
buried deep, somewhere you couldn't reach.

So we stayed.
The diner’s light buzzed above us,
a tired, yellow glow
as you sketched a story on a napkin,
a boy chasing paper moons,
painting dreams on cardboard wings.
You said he wanted to fly
but always fell too fast.

I asked if he ever made it.

You didn’t answer right away.
Just folded the napkin into something small,
tucked it into your pocket,
and said, “Some dreams aren’t meant to leave the ground.
But that doesn’t mean they’re not worth chasing.”

The streets became our compass.
We followed the glow of shop windows,
the hum of traffic lights.
We told stories under flickering signs,
wrote them into the cracks of sidewalks
where someone might find them later.

The nights got shorter.
The city, restless and impatient,
started pulling down its paper moons.
And one morning,
when the streets were still quiet,
you were gone.

Now, the neon hum feels louder,
like it’s trying to say something I can’t hear.
The city’s still the same-
same broken glass catching the streetlights,
same tired shadows folding into dawn.
But it feels emptier,
like it knows you’re not here.

I still walk those streets,
looking for the stories we left behind,
wondering if they’ll outlast the moons.
Maybe they will.
Or maybe they’ll just fade
into the hum of neon lights.