In the monsoon,
I walked colonised streets
trying to befriend a city,
forged fields and bright street lights,
they often vanished inside my eyes
to see happy children on beaches;
glass ceilings shattering to find a sky,
that broke down abruptly
to weep on my shoulders.
I swam in the rain
only to meet those children at the beach.
They roofed me under white curtains,
for the Witch might try to grab me,
plait my hair
and take me back
to her hall of circus.

Every flower,
every breeze,
every wounded bird in a city
are part of a folklore
where minstrels live,
they all sing me
back to beaches.

This city has become so familiar.
An endless refrain.
Sometimes the sky pulls away.
Sometimes I feel I could slip through the earth and disappear.
Nobody would even notice.

The other day a crowd gathered.
Bunched together as their paths narrowed.
Then fanned back out into space.
It was an endless flow.
Faces moving so fast they blurred into one.
I sat by the river afterwards.
Unable to stand.

There are seven billion people on this earth.
Drifting through themselves.
And everyone around them.

Train.
Cars pass one another.
Smoke.
They cross the road when the lights change.
Living is effortless.
Invisible.

Two of my friends' relatives died this year.
One from suicide.

There are small moments of grace.
That do nothing to stave off death.
Or the unfairness of existence.

I’ve been moving my hands a lot lately.
I’ve been learning to sew.

Sometimes we fall into dreams.
And lose sight of the present.
Because it’s too painful to consider.

The crow recognises itself in the mirror.
Along with everyone else.
And breaks it.