it feels compressed, wet
like a thick shroud of damp air,
is pushing me down.
the reflective mirage of steaming pavement
beckons me towards its own glass,
towards its own personal parallel existence.
it wants me to be for a short time.
with my bloodied fists i beat, beg, whimper,
but i cannot cross the threshold;
but before the cool, thin air of nightfall comes,
i will claw at the surface of this mirror,
until my fingers are no more.