étude #15

running words
down the streets
down the avenues.

the City writes a poem
on your skin.

(I still feel the kisses you rubbed last night into my skin)

no rain,
just a torrid asphalt
and the noise of the chipping hammers
in the air.

people come,
go,
passing by together
or standing
alone.

waiting for a cab,
for the traffic light to change,
for a change in life,
getting old while waiting.

waiting to die.

the City writes a poem
on the back of your eyes.

chasing words
down the streets
down the avenues
till you’ll die.

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