We stack humanity in little boxes
Miles high in whimsical warehouses we like to name after stolen things
People, places nobody remembers anymore
Cities are the loneliest lovers of all
Drawling avenues long enough to reach through steely glass
Yearn for times before humanity learned to live in midair
Learned to talk with their hands without touch.
She knows all the ways home
And every avenue is a way home
If you make the right turn.