Around me, death. I feel it in the crusted soil and smell it in the lost air. It braids through my hair and buries itself in my porcelain skin.
The wind comes in from the East and unveils urbanity. There is this noise in the city. It cracks the black strip of tar that winds into horizon. I watch the sunset eat the earth and the mountains don cloud.
I stand in isolation and look toward the sea. Past the last ghost building, a stretch of blue slashes through the sky. Urban wind nestles between my shoulder blades. I am concrete pierced with pipe; a book without a spine; stories scattered on current.
The homeless don their cultural colors. The strawflower plants seed in unforgiving soil and blooms. Ice kisses my skin all over strawberry. I breathe deep the memory of what was and taste what is to come.