Ren

The neon bleeds through the glass. Two guards watch through the downpour—unblinking, uncomplaining—while I count the pages left in this book and wonder how many versions of myself I can fold into one man. I memorize the rhythm of steam curling from an untouched coffee cup. I listen to the train’s cry like a prayer. My father’s empire thrives on finality; my hands, clean, trace endings that aren’t mine.