on days when the temperature breaks
into a choir of chaos,
it’s not us, but our forgotten cloths
on the windows of a skyscraper
that shiver
(either from the rioting winds
or the height of twelve floors)
like prisoners of meth
while we dream of a history
more intoxicating than
drugs.
on those days, i remember thinking
how it would be if we could only
touch the reality reflected
in the glass of the windows,
where cities floated on street lights
and headlights crossed over into galaxies,
resting some million lightyears away.
it was quite wishful though on my part,
because you still hung to the hope of the
windows shattering under the weight
of your palm, and dragging you down
with its splinters marrying gravity.
but gravity betrayed you.
••ari purkayastha
and so you say..