Everyone has their own story to tell,
everyone has their own love to sell
the layers of cloud coming through the busy lane,
no one can ignore those presence of late night bells.

The faces are dying,
constantly lying
if it rains; it will pour through the long cold fire today,
the cars are making music and the lampposts are swaying.

They must know that people and relationships come with desperation,
the must have the audacity to look straight to the sunsets of dissipation
this road is getting wet, this city is making love with whatever left in our ribcage,
the noir loves are uprooted, the blackness is dwelling in a sense of salvation.

You make music, I make words…
You make paintings, I make colours…
You go to cities, I go to you…
I may be everybody, I may be nobody and the evenings…the monsoon evenings in a drowsy city will always save us from the distances with each other.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Kayla Grace.