We happen then. Rushed with
The sharp reel of sirens, blur past,
Smashed out through my skull,
Whirring quietly in the void of
Night-terrors. The cold sheets.

Ice in my veins. Cold gusts of hot wind
Stir through my fragile meat. The
Tall, ebony fortress, the stacked floors
Towering like a stern smack on my
Cheek. The dry taste of ash.

Rising up through volleys, raindrops
Like gunfire, shells pouring across
My matted cheeks, dry eyes, no
Sleep, the street hugging me close,
Mad with love, eating me;

Frail puddles shatter under my
Reflection, heavy with sin and shame
And guilt and longing and pity
And myself, devoted one to its own,
As if I had never been born.