feels like we only go backwards

we smoke asian cigarettes out on a creaking balcony

above a morning city whose prescense I do not sense

an outpost to doom or a way out to

the sticky glow in the sky,

compressed farthest between clouds

where silence is a deafening roar

and where we feel no need to play humans

or yield to coquettish word games

where we finally can admit that we’re just

shamefaced sleepwalkers with magnetic bodies

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