it is these nights,
the minutes cozy up with the devil
the noses bleed with wide-eyed aspiration
the men sit in empty rooms with
large windows that look nowhere
and put their heads down on tables
covered in dust

breathe with me,
in, out, in, out
the respiration of city lights
coughing their rays on empty streets
while the metal men crawl the sidewalks
painting pictures with their veins
raccoon-eyed and possessed with hunger

and there is a dead lily that once sung me to sleep
there is an empty corridor in which i used to reside
there is a sun that will never know my name
and there is a flower that never grew

but it is these nights,
the glasses stay full until the queue of morning
the flames become immortal
the men solemnly speak
in their silence.