From this height, the city has the ugly visage of failed
possibilities, scraps of dystopia sequinned on her
colourless blouse, an aging matron who still walks the
streets in her high heels, her lips the desperate pink
of what might have been. I stand at the edge, counting
all the reasons to live. Below, the city murmurs even in
her sleep. Trying to fit her frame to the warm undulations
of the morning sky. Somewhere in her breath is the
poetry of those nights. Somewhere in her embrace is
the smell of heated passion, the taste of your skin on her
tongue, the beat of your heart in her urgent rhythm, the
shadow of your gaze in her underbelly. Somewhere in the
line of her upturned chin is the path we never dared to
take. Somewhere in her soft lap is everything we were.
Everything we lost. Have you watched this city disrobe
at sunrise? Today, her hand feels deathly cold in mine.