Windy city, bleeding heart



I could be anyone, any girl in a coffee shop on any street, in any wayward town where people are glad to be from and hope for other shores with higher waves beating on the beach

I might have been any woman in the art gallery, gathering dust for inspiration among the dead and the painted

Some shoes squeak, my shoes speak, every mile I walk throughout this glittery city, telling me how I know nothing after years of sweating verses

Watching paragraphs walk by, their stanzas on bicycles looking fit, and I can’t find the words

Stunned by the sight of all the stories placed just so, each letter splendid as Rubens or soothing as Monet

Seeking out shadows as the heart on my sleeve begins to drip along the sidewalk, the drops collecting into a puddle, following me as a stream through this mighty place

Giving me away, and

Screaming at me that I have not yet written anything

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