In the midnight susurrations of my city
I discovered the reason I’m not real.
I perched on the night’s sill,
trying to believe there was more
than worn out words
and misshapen meaning
scrawled in erasable ink.
While the emptiness of my hands
holds so much promise,
I listen to the ocean
in the cup of my palm,
dreaming of something more
than memories, the sting of salt
and the dying echoes of skylarks past.