Who are you without your breath?
I ask my self.
A Dry city in the dead heat?
Maybe.
I look for clues in this fish bowl
Fast running out of water.
What I find is a gap
A gap in your phone
A gap that exposes your soul,
scattered and naked,
photographed
in pixel ink
Waiting to dry
And dry it will,
Because that is our will,
Yours and mine
It is our will that we have etched over the city
Our will that we have pained On the walls of every street,
The same streets that run like veins
birthing us ,
Day in, and day out
Our streets without complaint,
Our streets without breath.
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