Apartments of windows,
complexes of complexes,
opportunities saunter by as the ghosts of interpretation breathe.

Barely alive,
barely affecting the colors shown through from the walls behind.

Swallowed and engulfed, the hands,
the hands communicate an urgency.

A spark from these city walls and the whole place would go down,
still cleaning up after itself,
but down just the same.

The only common bonds left are the ones that travel silently by train.

Dormant and stuffed in our ears,
friendships now replaced by common decency.

So this is posturing...
in this light we all look a little anxious,
and lonely like carnivores.

If only a gun were pulled,
that might divert some of the attention away.

We all sleep awkward with our bodies.

Shoulders,
should-haves and wide eyes in to the haze,
the truth is so evident.

Breath falling off the tails of cigarette smoke into conversations and smokescreens...