By now, our hairs smell the same.
We merge and by merging, we create an enclosure
of flesh, insular and reticent and just the loveliest.
And on some days, the skies do not look grey at all.
The streets criss-crossing our arms are quiet tonight.
We take doglegs to avoid the lights.
We rendezvous through dark spots and birthmarks,
this is our aesthetic of touch now. Our fingertips
transcribe alphabets of sense, self, and world.
How lovely the city looks mapped across our feet.
It tickles so, this itch we cannot shake.
