The city doesn’t heal you. It teaches you how to walk with the wound
A tired voice in a tired city.
The city knows my footsteps.
I don’t make noise anymore—just impressions on old concrete.
Some evenings, the wind turns into a broken siren,
calling my name through rusted poles and dead cables.
Not gentle.
Not poetic.
Just honest.
Walls peel like they’re done pretending.
Paint drops off in tired flakes,
the way people drop masks when the night gets quiet.
Rain here doesn’t fall—it hammers.
Cold, metallic, full of city-dust.
It hits the skin like truth you didn’t ask for,
and still, some part of me calls it comfort.
I’ve stood under these flickering streetlights so long
they probably know my secrets better than I do.
Neon never shines.
It struggles.
And struggling has its own kind of beauty.
The city is loud, but somehow I listen inside the noise.
Between engines coughing and trains dragging their shadows,
I hear a small voice—
mine, I think—
still trying.
Concrete remembers what bone forgets.
Every crack, every scar,
every silent walk at 3 a.m.
stitches itself into the street.
People think cities don’t feel.
Maybe they don’t smell the dust when it rains.
Maybe they never noticed how even rust tries to hold on.
I’m not waiting for miracles.
Just a little space where the wind can say my name
without burning my lungs.
And if that’s all I ever get—
fine.
Somewhere in all this noise,
I am still here.
Standing.
Breathing.
Answering,
even when nobody hears.
Author_Rohitash
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