Ive been found between tight lipped archaic brownstone faces, lining my mind with untailored curtains. strummed their iron gates with twiggy fingers, forcing chaotic nondescript rhythms, like laughter in public places. familiarity is a vague point of interest that i have been careful to avoid,such as the n the l the w, dead lines which i now refuse no matter the convenience or destination. i stopped listening for the bicycle spokes hiss when you started calling it the city's cicada.
there's levels of comfort amassed with certain levels of not caring, neither of which i have come to understand or give a shit about when it comes to answering your drunken calls or forgetting your street name. always, the iron gates strum on, humming along with street lights that burst when i say your name. i guess this is a city for cicadas. your city, so much the same as your loafers, penniless and buffed, a metaphor wasted on your tactless humor.
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