As the dust settles

There’s a high-rise building with windows for walls.

There’s a dilated pupil in a steam soaked mirror.

A siren from the sidewalk far below anoints the morning air.

An aroma of sweat still soils freshly washed hair.

There is distress on the pavement

and predictability in the triangle of wings plastered to the sky.

There is a sour bitterness in the coffee still coated to your tongue,

but the pupil in the mirror sees only that there is more to be un-won.

Attachment is punishment,

and freedom is an empty gun.