Their lamps constantly flickering –
begging for someone
anyone
to stop by 
and say hello,
acknowledge their existence.
The houses are small and
squashed together, 
but no one feels discomfort.
They each know their neighbors and beyond.
They like it that way.
During the night
time slows
almost but never pauses
and the people come out,
girls with their hair braided,
careful works of their mothers,
boys with their hands tucked in their pockets,
careful works of the universe,
everyone else with their voices
and they gather around, not a fire,
but rather the aftermath.
The hot coals burn neon red and orange
and the people tell their stories,
the universe intently watching them,
allowing a hesitant silence in the world.
During the day
they resume their lives as "normal" people
but they know their place in the stars,
the universe reserved it for them,
and every time without fail
whenever someone enters their home
they welcome them with open arms
and say,
"Welcome home."
They teach the wayward traveller their ways,
allow the wayward traveller to partake in the silence of the world,
send the wayward traveller on their way with tearful goodbyes, 
and know the wayward traveller knows,
should they have ever been wondering in the first place.