Member-only story
The World Changes at 2 A.M.
in stillness moved
The world changes at 2 a.m.,
when the noise of day recedes,
and the night leans in close,
its breath cool, scented with pine
and the sweet bloom of angel’s trumpets,
flowers that guard their perfume
for the hours when no one is watching.
I walked those hours like a secret,
my feet tracing a path away
from glaring fluorescents and smoke-filled tents,
away from the hum of vending machines
and the quiet groan of tired voices.
In the stillness, I found a rhythm —
a song, a space, a story.
There is beauty in stillness,
especially in stillness moved:
the sway of pines under orange streetlights,
the whisper of a cold breeze
that dared to touch my face,
reminding me I was alive.
At eighteen, I booked dreams
for strangers who paid more in a night
than I earned in a month.
Their laughter floated
across the ocean,
and I stayed behind the line,
in a cubicle, in a borrowed…