PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY

Pittsburgh

I am a roar, I know, but I'm quickly quieting down to a whisper in the windowsill.

The sky is prolonged and maybe even awaited

by those who are boisterous and restless,

by artists who get lost in the waves of what they're feeling.

Moon beams kiss my face and

collect my liquid soul.

I would carry myself so confidently, going out into the nighttime,

but do I really wish to interrupt the placidity of this black town?

The sounds of the highway

turn into a lulling for me to rest my head upon,

but my brain still ripples against meaningless tides.

The stars gush over everything at my window.

Somewhere a woman is blubbering out her pain to her Someone

and they are listening.

Somewhere a woman is cutting up her wrists the way that'll kill her slowly

and only her lungs are listening, waiting to lose it all.

I will never understand how the world

holds so many tears in its palm, and yet not a single

person truly feels the

seven billion eyes surrounding them.