sky is purple and orange like fading bruise
the marks rain leaves against window
remind me of my cat's scratches.
like a Dostoyevsky character, I hate the sound of wind in the trees
as it echoes in the shapeless emptiness inside me.
it is one of those evenings
when the manner the grass lies in the neighborhood park
causes a pang of sad anxiety:
such is the backdrop against which
in the opposite house
a fifth floor window is lit up
showing a good-looking woman dishing out unknown food
while a handsome man leans over the table to straighten the cutlery.
but I turn my gaze to sky, now colourless,
cut by the sharp, black contours of roofs.
their life fill me with longing for mine,
the one that passes me by
unnoticed.
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