In the wee hours of this morning

I sit at my table with a cup of tea,

staring at my hollow palms, counting hours.

The city runs on coins, walks in heavy boots and black suits.

My dreams are like mirages on barren land –

I write and write, but the ink dissolves before I can take a sip.

I keep walking, learning that life is a jar on a high shelf.

I don’t have sunlight in my pockets,

only paper flowers that can’t hold the rain.

I try listening to the thin walls of this city,

this world of stone,

but I’m a glass vessel

trying to hold water in trembling fingers

while the cracks inside me quietly spread.