I'd
draw
face on
my skin—

often
times,
I forget
but

memories
flare into
corner delis
where I

perch on
windowsills
and dream
for things

yet there.
Sirens repel
the best
of what

comes
around and
conscious
vagabonds

wish for
miracles—
standing
streets over

inside a red
with greens
before yellows
but seven still:

sync'd with
movement
too brittle
to understand.

Rhythm
blends
constant
in melodies

streaming
feathered ears
to pavement
until

I am no
longer able
to hear
the sounds;

creeping
up slowly
in attempt
to throw

my
body
onto
silence.