your lips release, black feathers,
the flow directed,
towards strangers, occupying lifts,
holding broken pieces, of their souls,
under invisible lenses,
with bloodstained hands.
the day, after today,
will bring the unexpected,
engraved inside, a basket full of promises,
beneath the magnolia petal.
the 17th window, on the 24th landing,
requires new locks.
everything looks comparable,
in the same, grey proportions.
never realising, never knowing,
the time’s bargaining, has loose ends,
and dead batteries.