you're sitting there,
on stone steps outside an apartment in which you presumably reside,
toxic smoke wafts in front of the off-creme door,
it's been painted many times before.
peeling paint reveals the blue hue underneath,
and the frame still holds the marks of abuse,
from the way the door slammed in that drunk argument two months back.
then again, maybe the frame's always been like that.
you're a stranger with a life as complex as mine,
and there's a word for that thought i can't recall.
i think my revelation is newfound,
but hundreds have thought as i before.
i, like you,
expelling ashes from your oily lungs,
is made up of a thousand people shoved into one mould,
creating new beasts with new intricacies,
that walk the earth with contradictory personalities.
i have passed you-
you, a stranger i will never see again,
who didn't notice i was there,
won't recall my presence anywhere,
i doubt our paths will cross again.
i see you, you're laughing.
so small and fragile,
the patterns upon your wall are so small,
but as of late they've been getting bigger,
and they'll only grow:
in size and complexity as you do too.
so much colour adorns your wall-
i think my wall is monochromatic.
my dreams and reality are too,
even in lucidity shades of grey appear the same.
colour faded into ashen hues.
i hear you, at night.
when the rain pours onto my roof,
i hear you as you run for shelter,
exasperated and cold-
perhaps the darkness has encapsulated your soul,
like it has done mine.
would another stranger make me less alone?
perhaps you drape your patterned wall across your flesh,
bright colours singing.
or perhaps it lurks just beneath your skin,
darkness hidden in veins-
waiting to flush your body with a scarlet waterfall.
you're gone and silence ensues,
and the rain washes the patterns from your wall.