The pavement drips neon green onto my edges, stains that shouldn't exist where my flesh should be attached. I pull close beneath the thrum of crossing advertisements—a flicker geometry of scarlet and electric blue that doesn't feel like light anymore, just vibration, high and thin. I move where sinew and bone couldn't stride, bent into trapezoids the gutters forgot about. I taste asphalt dust and battery acid, memories of a wrist brush that won't reappear. Nothing keeps me anchored; I stretch out under the arterial bloom of sodium lamps, trailing fingers through discarded cigarette smoke that looks too solid. I measure the pulse of new shoes kicking past me, rhythmic, independent. They walk right over the empty hollow where my belonging should be. Just one angle of shoulder, one crook of elbow kept stationary for too long. One soft, pulsing corner to fold my shape against. Please, let one shape touch; let them just need losing me against their radius for a single, bright, shivering moment.
Mood: tender