Skeletal Foundations

it's the city that makes you,
she says when her industrialized eyes
start to flicker. her heart rushes
like a subway falling late and
the patterns in her skin remind you of
striated architecture (reminds you of how
everything's human in its own way)

we're precarious concrete skeletons
crafted by men praying we won't fall,
and we yearn- you know- we ache
for a sense of vitality and being to
enter us and make us more than a
pale ghost of an engineer's dreams and

maybe we have our own shadowy corners,
too.

commotion exists betwixt her ears and
she's a destination, a place to rest and
catch your breath but not to settle
down because the moment you blink
smog will steal the stars and she will
already have travelled on.

yet when she slept that night, she cried
graffiti tears that stained her cheeks
in a way some might consider artistic;
she says there's never enough time
to complete the things we promised
and one way roads only ever lead
farther from the people we used to be.

[when you wonder how long
it takes a person to give up,
she has no answer]

she is wrapped over and through with
caution tape and scandals, she's covered
in abrasive pavement and she tries to tell you
she is too expansive to nestle down in but
you don't believe her, and she's right.

the city never leaves.