Detached.

Altitude twists attitudes.

High floors brews philosophers.

There is something about these hanging balconies,

You can look away and beyond-

Far from the reality.

Once in a while I do give in to this temptation.

I sit too, in my balcony of a high apartment.

At night when the sounds are less, and light specks many.

A game of lego, only illuminated.

Block on blocks, blocks following blocks

Dazzled in patterns of black and yellow.

At night everything is one

No rich and no poor

That blue of the cheap plastic that coats the slum tops

That matt of the stone surface that adorns the beautiful ones

All submerge into one black, just yellow showy crystals.

But in this height, air deprived

I feel detached.

I feel removed.

No bodies to be seen.

No hands to be brushed against.

Eyes disappeared into the dark.

No glints, no hopes.

I’d rather be a thriving loafer,

Than a lonesome philosopher.

So I climb down

To collect another story
To fashion another poem.