Here are my arms, my legs. And my skin like paper with a light beneath. All the parts add up to a sum. All the parts laced together with string and wire, lit up in the morning and dull in the night. From fingers to hand to wrist, and then arm to shoulder to chest. And to heart, from every end to heart. We could make maps with our flesh, and trace our toes from the roads they took to the core. Inside my tiny subway veins is a pulse, a little owl of an echo, a baby that whimpers, frets. Notices when I'm scared.

Remember when we talked about crawling outside of our own bodies? What a freeing thing to get out from that lookout spot behind our pupils-- to stretch our legs at a rest stop on the highway, feel the blood move again, bend the curve out of our backs and breathe fresh air after being curled up so long in a stale, stale box. Maybe we're all presents to be unwrapped. With paper too thick and bows that won't untie.

When I moved to the city, I didn't expect the quiet. Cities are noisy, bustling, full, I thought. Aren't they supposed to be? On sidewalks I keep my face pointed forward and my gloveless hands in my peacoat pockets. The heads bob up and down with each step. Sometimes a shoulder brushes against mine and it hurts so fucking much. The veins transport a sadness, a wrenching pang, a twitch. 'Cause I could know you, you know. We could be something but we'll never ask. We could crawl inside each other and map the veins out from the heart. You and I, me and you, but we will never ever know. Let's keep on walking, let's just keep on. A lid rests heavy over the city and keeps a low hum running through the streets. There are masks tied 'round our faces that keep us from talking. Like a dream where you can't see my face, you just know that I'm there.

Sometimes I just want someone to say something, anything really. Or scream it. But I'm trapped inside a shell of me. And you are trapped inside of you.