O.N.S.
Nadia Murtaza
Dark walls divide the mirrored ceilings.
Her hair reflected off of the orange street lights.
The city is roaring.
Hands clenched tight against the autumn breeze,
Her nails dug into his rough nuckle skin.
The cab stops.
Two-fifty, three reads the neon digital print,
Opposite worlds segregated by a plastic wall,
He drops his change.
The keys crackle but they're deep in the bag,
It's suddenly cold and her perfumed hands shiver,
The door is unlocked.
The elevators stark edges and flourcent lights fake a reality,
The same is reflected in the mirror the next morning.
They wish they knew each others names.
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