I offer whatever bubbles up
from my mind to this city as each
of my foot became the water
for the shore that is the streets:
closing together then separating
like doors on these reveled city
clubs. I can hear the upbeat music,
and I can smell the smoke coming
from burning skins because times
like these are the secret well-kept
by the city: how friction became the language
of intimacy and the alcohol is nothing
but a gasoline to make rubbing easier.
I stood there like a stifled tree, closed my eyes,
and listened to the breeze of the midnight air,
this sure does feel like the shoreline.
I reminisced how the sky burned orange,
brightly holding the moment before turning
everything into ocean and sprinkled dust.
Still even when the city glows
the most under the day’s shadow,
Nothing can make my strabismus eyes
into feeling
Comfort than under a sky well burnt,
waiting to become the Pacific.