I no longer live in the city. I thought my atoms would draw me a body. I thought my emptiness would find a witness. But you are who you are, and I'm the dust left on the window. I'm the resident of these walls.

You're my excuse when love is a sin. You're a bird. You're so alive, like a head spinning with thoughts. Like the air. But I am the dust. Your skin has sensed me. I touched your hand in your sleep, covered your eyes, enfolded your eyelashes and held your toe. Then I prayed all night for the wind to never take me away and for your tear to never wipe me off.

The other night, I could swear I saw your hand reach to me. I clang until I became a part of you. I felt your heart beat and I thought it did. I saw your smile and your laughter. You spoke to me about your dreams and I wanted to be one, but then you told me how dust has been surrounding your window. You said how you've been thinking to clean the mess. No confesses made you see. No truth could let me be. I covered your eyes, enfolded your eyelashes and held your toe. No wind could take me away. 

I'm mistaken for my own shape. I'm sorry that I travel in storms; that I fly in a falling state. But you're a bird. You're so alive. Like the air.

“Come on in,”
I heard that; his dirt accumulated me. But you wouldn’t know. It’s dark and I’m at the window. 

Street Lit Apartment

He led his body to the direction of the air, skipping thoughts. On a road, he spoke to the wind as his lungs rested. He needed no identity or faith to find himself. He didn't believe in love and his desires were shaped. He was taught to wake up when dreams conquest reality, and reality was the most beautiful, the most wished for.
His days weren't numbered, the sky was infinite, and the universe had no king. In the city, secrets were celebrated. He was on his way. Every night, he closed his eyes on his awareness, his thoughts and insanity. Every morning, he washed away his sleep.
There was no lost or found. No homeless, victims or left behinds. When he got to the city, there were only voices. In every corner he heard a song. At mountains, there was heart break, followed by melodies.
Night was his family; he belonged to the dark. His father was a mountain and he had once told him that some stars are made by us, they follow us and find our way, and here, they were all his. He was never lost.
He needed no happiness to show him beauty. He learned a lesson at every sunrise, loved his emptiness, and had no battles to fight. With a dim flickering sight and the words he used to mend, he was complete, like love in a street lit apartment.