In the dead of the night

When stories really begin,
not at midnight, when people still go about their business,
Enjoying drinks and company,
Not near dawn, when the birds call for the sun to rise,
Banishing the monsters and the unseen.
No, it's in the blank between them,
When one is utterly alone, walking in the streets.
When all the noises are distant, alien,
When everything is still and quiet.
On a facade a lone window is alight,
A party? A romantic evening? A good book?
The air is cold and people huddle together
in the safety and warmth of their homes,
While I walk the night.