Ghost City
Tomas Marcantonio
My nightly routine hasn’t changed in years. I chew out three cigarettes on the roof of my apartment and watch the rooftop silhouettes long enough to feel lonely. Then I venture into the streets.
The alleys are the city’s veins, narrow, winding, endless, and the citizens are the red blood cells. They proceed in merry groups, arm in arm, unaware that I'm among them. I ride the neon currents in their wake, a mutated cell swimming for the heart when I should be spat onto the graffitied walls. They’re oblivious, carrying oxygen like a chain gang, an army of united ants.
I pass beneath fluorescent signs and they paint my face different shades of sour, like a chameleon being tossed across an ever-evolving sky. Just don't ask to see my tongue, or you’ll see it roll
