The air shared by a city.
Crumbling, but slowly, like a ruin, a flower – like time.
I speak of the walls, bleak and dreary.
Of memories exhaled at midnight,
and footsteps retraced, every evening
I speak of the beauty in the failure to come home on time,
or to never come home.
I speak of a struggle to persevere through time,
and rise again.
I speak of accidental sunsets that can never be preserved
of the same faces on a train every morning
of a light switching off at 11:23 pm – every night
I speak of the beauty to feel everything
or nothing at all