Coffee cups ripple music notes
as the ground shakes overtones
across a half empty apartment
beside the metro.
Cigarette buts spell out verses
scattered all over the puzzled floor—
when snippets are unhinged from
the silence of the living’s lips.
I am a writer ( I am )
in search for flickering
lamp lights in the dark—
messages sent from the edges
of where ever words crossover
like passengers on runaway trains.
Standing on a rooftop’s precipice
that carries the stars’ weight,
I listen intently as burnt paperbacks
whisper pleas of unfinished novels; telling me to write—to step off through
a space where darkness lights the truth on fire.
A typewrite gets a second wind.