The Rootless

When I draw near you, the streets make grinding sounds as if we’re on an alien planet where we need huge machines to survive. When I extend myself towards you, the river emits queasy reek as if I’m sailing through a trench full of filth. When I offer a drink to you, cars with sinister hazy tails skid past that there couldn’t be any pedestrian eager to inhale the evening dew. When I walk you home, the pavement lacks the hiss of leaves as if the loggers have settled in our neighbourhood. When I escort you to the doorstep, hands of unfed urchins strangle my legs as if I was the one who could provide food to all of them. When I touch your velvety cheek, neighbours peep through their panes as if they lost causes to fight over with their spouses.