There are invisible cities behind your eyes.
I could pull up a lawn chair and watch small figures
walking and singing and giving birth and dying,
rushing in and out of the skyscrapers of your pupils,
the brick buildings of their corners. But something
always captures your attention, and you
turn away from me, towards her. And the cities
crumble and melt like snow on the side of the road,
and I feel the tears crawling out from
under my skin, and I sit outside all night,
watching the cars honk at me.
But I can never stay away and I’m always knocking
on your door at five in the afternoon,
and you will finally open the door
and I will see the invisible cities, good
as new, bustling with hope and readiness, spilling
out onto your cheeks.
More poetry at Used Furniture.
