writing cursive on the atrium walls

the smell of waiting. a shoelace. bustops and pennies, mahogany banisters.
a heart as a highway. a vein. you and i travel, slowly.

i am an alchemist. a scientist. death, ether, and chloroform
the tent of your eyelids. an orchid petal. close and open, butterflies.

the intoxication of accidents. a gunshot. folded newspapers, blue televisions, radios.
i scale illusionary walls. a metamorphosis. you, cups of tea, and my weakness.

our city is a body curving downward. i hear a whisper just beyond the sphere of my hearing, constant.
it sounds like a boy uneasy in his laughter.

for you, i wear my history like a delicate stitching across my wrist.