21st ave.
notes on wanting to be heard
I became lifeless on this search
to obtain anything
that would water some life
back into my veins.
I marched out onto the balcony
howling your name
over and over,
silencing the echoes
that were supposed to
shout back
through all the noise
and commotion
of this concrete city-
screaming until it sliced
like piercing glass,
with jagged edges,
through the conversations
happening below me,
cutting in
just so I could feel
connected to someone.
I yearned for all those people
to feel what I felt…
but nothing,
because they couldn’t hear me.
I don’t remember the last time
I felt exhilarated about something.
The last time I was intoxicated
with fresh air,
with laughter,
with a free spirit,
levels above the entire city,
you and me,
with nothing to do,
except each other.
The last time
I was yelling your name
off the balcony,
drowning out the sirens
and every car horn below me,
you were right next to me,
smoking your cigarette,
tossing your hot ashes
over the railing
into the happy faces
of strangers
who didn’t know any better.
But I didn’t care,
because for once,
you weren’t burning me.
