We're sitting on a ledge and drinking out of cups that feel funny in my hands. The glass has molded to someone else's fingers-- her dna has integrated itself deep into the fibers where no amount of dish soap or jet dry can ever erase it.

This space is not Ours, it's just a loan. Our feet dangle above a city that moves and breathes and turns and sizzles while we sit here, sipping, sipping, whispering. 

This city is not Ours, it's just a loan. I'm looking down, sandals dangling half-off my feet, watching tiny glowing beads of sweat that get caught in my curls and



to the thirsty pavement below. I exist there, molecules loose and liquid for mere moments before I'm dried up and released back into the air. My own particles fly past the fire hydrant, the stop sign, the ledge, the glass that feels funny in my hands, past my own eyebrows and sweaty curls, past the treetops and roof decks and penthouses into the sky where I will wait to be turned back into water.

Where I will wait until I fall like rain.