Lights above.
Concrete jungle.
Glass, Glass, Glass;
and elevator.

You wobble to the pane
with your gnarled hands
strung around your cane;
a companion. A walker
a walker to walk with.
But not to talk with.

I assign you this:

You are upset.
You are depressed.
You look out of the window,
and you wish for more.

And so I give you mock kindness:

I walk by,
Bangs gnarled,
Fringe scarred to my cheeks,
Faint traces of eyeliner.
And I wave.

Hello,
“Hello,”

I put my hands up;
Nails short.
No white showing.
No death on my lively fingertips.

Your hand is still raised;
Nails long and yellow.
Gnarled and chipped.
Eye bags carrying the weight of death.

Phone in one hand;
I carve the heart you are missing.

“Why?”

And I am gone.