The City
Skylines and wardrobes
You thread the city through your disguise. As if it is part of you.
I can’t stand mine. All the flat. The skyline looks like someone punched a beggar in the mouth.
Maybe that’s why I am lifted out so often. Why you’re so grounded. The pulse of people, jagged and coarse here, forever traveling uphill over there. My heart is always in other places. I want mountains and the pines again.
You want access to the sea. I can’t blame you. I want that too. Tension is tension because we war with something else. A piano key that strikes the string wrong. Or without any emotion. A drum with a hole in it. Flaps. Losing the beat in the precise moment of dissonance.
You dance through alcoves of light as if they were made with you in mind.
I keep looking up to the sky. Maybe it’ll rescue me. Maybe resuscitation is just somewhere else. Anywhere else. I keep leaving. I keep no room in my heart for this place. Stranded, I guess you’d call it. Awkward gravity, I call it. Pull without the ability to push.
Your city is woven into the very fabric of your being. I can’t imagine what that’s like. Yes I can. I used to identify with a place. And it wasn’t this one. It’s cheap. That’s what we all say.
