Nocturne I

“No duerme nadie por el mundo. Nadie, nadie.
No duerme nadie.”
—Federico García Lorca, “Ciudad sin sueño”


When I heard her tapping at my window

I knew it was too late &

I knew she had reached you

too late


She tapped gently,

too tired

of carrying the whole city

on her shoulders


Earlier that night she’d walked

through the same streets we used to walk through,

you & I,

& she mistook them for rivers


By ten she was at the entrance of the building

& by the time she got off the elevator,

on the sixth floor,

everything she’d stolen from the city night

was showing


The traffic lights & cones,

some tears,

spittle from a cyclist,

neon signs & graffiti on walls,

vomit expelled from an Uber at three am,

phone wires, texts &

dance moves forgotten under a lamppost,

paper coffee cups, mild disappointment,


& some high hopes left to rot

outside a club


She carried it all,

a fluorescent mass outside your door—



on your doorstep


(No one was home when the whole city burst into the room

& then burst out of it

through the windows

flowing freely downwards,

back to itself—

taking with her the imprints we left on your couch)

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