Paper Kings

An apartment on Bleaker, snuggled between common brick towers, tourists called quaint.

Bottles adorn a window from the fifth floor and can only be seen from the other side of the sidewalk.

Under a blanket of dust they shine like some valuable gem in the unforgiving month of July.

The neighborhood observers huddle on the steps of their abodes that all blend together in a haze of uniform risers.The stories they tell, the myths of a man who raised two daughters up there were too much for the innocent ones.

A family that just moved in and sat on the steps, listening to Mr. Atassi had moved out the next day.

His words are engraved in the spaces between my fingers and the whites of all other eyes.

Surrounding me beyond the familiarity of this living room are notes of academia that claim I know things about people, the way they act, their minds  and the consequences of certain human action.

Antiques I collected from travels to the faraway corners of the world sit on my bookshelves.

Wonders of ancient times and literature with art originals coat my walls,

but all I manage is to lay on my carpet that is far too dirty for such a thing and stare at the ceiling.

Here I gaze for hours and tell fortunes of the vendors outside my window and wonder what separates me from the man and his family, just the emptiness of a floor or a ceiling from either perspective denies me the ability to ask.

A song from the Arabic man living in the ghetto, a curbside prophet told me his story.

-Ember Nocturne