Fog sits on rusted windowsills
taking respite from the bustling city surrounding
laced boots pace the streets
contemplations of grime and grins
chipped paint smiles
crackled grey skies
peppered with ash and light
lanterns floating
orbs glowing
beacons to sink stars
I find myself hollowed out,
clinging to the pulleys and window frames.
happiness falls like tresses of hair on a cheek
fleeting
light
steam and coffee grounds
bitterness and mist are swaddling me like a familiar blanket
monotone comfort
this rusted steel city
my home.
seven hills 