The rootless

When I draw near you,
the streets make grinding sounds
as if we’re on planet Mars
where we need huge machines to survive.

When I extend myself towards you,
the river emits queasy reek
as if I’m sailing through
a trench full of filth.

When I offer a drink to you,
cars with sinister hazy tails skid past
that there couldn’t be any
pedestrian eager to inhale the evening dew.

When I walk you home,
the pavement lacks the hiss of leaves
as if the loggers have settled
in our neighbourhood.

When I escort you to the doorstep,
hands of unfed urchins strangle my legs
as if I was the one who could
provide food to all of them.

When I touch your velvety cheek,
neighbours peep through their panes
as if they lost causes to fight over
with their spouses.

And when I kiss you goodnight,
the concrete jungle starts lamenting
as if I’m responsible for the drought
for the acid rain.

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