The Sixteenth Floor

The noise of the city sounds below me. It clashes against the houses And rises like smoke through the narrow streets. It polishes the marble fronts of houses. Grating itself against them. And they shine in the lamplight And cast their echoes back upon the asphalt of the streets.

But I hear no sound of your voice. The city is incoherent — trivial. And my brain aches with emptiness.