The city is made of spit. Purple folds on its back offering wings. Glow lights surround window streets. Caucaphonic art echoing caves. It’s a busy festival if you look up. Night rainbows glide by in street cars, saturating pavements. We crash hard at life offering us so much. Courses in tears. Degrees in delight. Pay, attention. At 13 I learned that finding beauty in the oil spills in parking lots was a necessary survival skill for life. There will always be birds drowning. I’ve tucked mine safely away in the corners of my eyes. She peeks out chirping every time I need to cry.
Lida Literary Newsletter
Join the newsletter to receive the latest updates in your inbox.