The midnight streetlamp flickers,
Casting its pale yellow light on the board.
An old man coughs in the corner,
His hands tremble above black and white squares.
Silent pieces await,
Each harboring their tiny secrets—
Pawn’s dirty fingernails,
Knight’s crooked grin.
Inside each move a whisper:
The basement where moths feast,
The attic where childhood hides under dust.
We think ourselves kings,
But we wander like pawns,
Lost in theories and stratagems,
In alleyways of memory and regret.
Our eyes narrow in the dark room,
Seeking that elusive bishop,
The one who grants absolution,
Who bends to kiss despair.
Every piece is us:
Queens with tired hearts,
Rooks holding onto straight lines.
Lives in checkmate,
Breath upon breath,
Endgame written in unseen ink.