When You’re Never Out This Late

When you’re never out this late, you don’t know people sleep on porches or benches or that some people actually never really sleep. You don’t know how loud alarms are when there are no other sounds, how fast a car can go without laws, what a dead body looks like on the first train. The things like: lights that always stay on, who’s awake at 3 a.m. and who works third shift—you don’t know.

When you’re never out this late, you don’t know when frost starts, what first-light is like and who makes the first cup of coffee for who makes your first cup of coffee. You don’t know how graffiti gets there, that some people don’t leave footprints in snow and that some don’t have shadows.

When you’re never out this late you don’t know how quiet and dark it can get. You don’t know how alone you can feel—how alone you can be. You don’t know what it looks like to look up from the street into your own window, light on, light off.

When you’re out this late, you know things like regrets, things you want to change—you know very well who you want to be inside with. When you’re out this late, you know who you miss, and for a moment,
you know what you want to be.