there is a vacant city in the middle of nothing,
which haunts the desert like a dream
against the ink-stained sky.
the toppled buildings made of paper,
as fragile as my recollections;
the wind takes whole monuments in its gust.
with each breath of the sky,
a piece of this paper city is carried away,
and with it the memories of these hollow places.
with each stolen memory,
i become an outline of a person
on this sheet of desert parchment.
i am graphite against paper.
there is nothing left but the outline of a figure,
the rough sketch of a person.
the wind makes its final breath,
and i become a paper being,
whisked away by the whim of the wind.
