Nighthawks by Edward Hopper (1942)

A shady pub
dying by the flicker of a half-lit neon sign,
insides dimly lit
with an inconsequential hue of pink
beneath which
strangers look oddly familiar,
like you’ve always known them
but cannot tell
from where.
The clinking of ice cubes
settling noisily at the bottom of a glass barely filled with cheap whiskey,
a faint heartbreak song playing in the distance
in a room filled at the dimmed corners with past lovers,
their outlines blurred from the haze of curling cigarette smoke
caught amidst the noises of people kissing,
that sound like the world’s ending tonight;

tell me
have you never dreamt?


— Satyaki Mitra
Nighthawks by Edward Hopper (1942)

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