Sleeping at The Plaza
by Eve Alexandra
A shadow, a thread, and the silence of a quiet city, they weave stories as the sun dips below the horizon, their feet crunching softly against the polished tiles that have fallen into the wall. Fireplaces crackling faintly, but not quite, as if watching through a telescope. The warmth of the night hangs in the air, wrapped in threads that seem to whisper secrets, like the soft sound of water. The hound's scent, it says, whispers through the gaps of silence, and there are no words in this world for her absence.
Here lies my pet, a small figure so little that I cannot see it anymore, but its weight is so heavy that I can't let go. It waddles along, its tail trailing behind, like a ghost walking through the misty streets of The Plaza, until the morning comes, and then it's gone forever. But there is still a faint sound to my ear: it is a rhythm, like the soft rustling of leaves under a breeze, or maybe it's a whisper from someone who has left behind a trail that never returns.
We dance silver, as a shiny hook. The hem of my dress was wet from the fountain, and finally it lay on the floor like the slick blue skin of a fish. We danced silver, a dance made entirely of shadows, until the city stopped being a city, and became a sound. A sound that hums with the promise of new things, but also a whisper that echoes through the night, as if it will never come back.
And now I stand here, looking out at The Plaza, the same place where all these stories have been told, the same place where silence grows into silence. It is my home, a shadow, a thread, and a moment of time that will not return. But in this moment, I know that it still will.
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