NEON GHOSTS

We slip through the night like rumors,

glowing edges, fading trails,

neon ghosts drifting just outside of memory.

The streets remember our footsteps

even when no one else does —

a soft trace of heat

left on the city’s pulse.

Billboards flash like broken halos,

casting colors onto our skin

that don’t exist anywhere in the daylight.

Your shadow moves beside mine,

flickering in and out

like it’s learning

how to stay.

We don’t speak much —

the silence between us

knows what to do.

Every breath hums electric,

every glance

a glitch of something

almost too real to name.

Neon ghosts —

we’re here,

but only barely,

alive in the spaces

where light spills wrong

and time forgets to track us.

The night bends around our shapes,

tries to keep us,

tries to understand us.

But we’re not meant for capture —

we’re wanderers made of glow and ache,

moving on instinct,

born to drift.

Your laughter cuts through the static,

soft and fleeting,

and the whole city

seems to exhale.

For a moment

we’re not ghosts at all —

just two sparks

finding warmth in the dark.

But the glow shifts,

the world resets,

and we fade again

into color and current,

leaving only a shimmer behind.

Neon ghosts —

here for a heartbeat,

gone in a blink,

still remembered

by the places we pass through.