I would sometimes retreat to the rooftop to look down. the city is filled with fevered lights its people turning into sculpture candles feigned, stiffed and easily melted
there are no oceans in the city, but there is always a turbulence in our chests the unceasing burst of rolling waves looking for shores, looking for peace
the night weather is gently blowing a gust of blue breeze from another continent. what is in the chest of sky: our hopes disguising itself into stars the sun sleeping soundly beneath the brink of night the barren moon learning to put on a mantel
we talked about the rain that didn’t fall (the eight o’clock weather forecast was a joke) the day afterwards soon plagued to a tragedy. ever so often will we be able to shut the data and open our chest tethering words and read the cities
tomorrow will stretch the sky in blue white clouds will grow beneath the depths of it anew. once in a while we have to learn to love the sky because loving human is far too complex.