the city never rests, never allows herself to fall to peaceful calm slumber
for she is too alive
too awake
too electric to rest her weary concrete head
and that makes two of us.
yet she is made up of a cacophony of voices and a tapestry of colours,
of hustling bustling feet clattering on pavements
and just-almost-unnoticeable touches on the bus, on the train,
inconspicuous and unassuming, wanted and needed.
while i
i am made up of
half-empty cups of tea running polar cold sitting on surfaces long forgotten,
of murky puddles of stormwater no one cared to find the lightning in
of oversized woollen jumpers and spilled milk and oozing honey,
and perhaps i am conspicuous, maybe assuming, perchance unwanted, occasionally unneeded.
but i sit and watch the city
her lights flicker sadly as the blazing sun eclipses them
and she looks at me, eases her solid head against the sun
"rest, dear child,"
and together we rest
as one.
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