my chest is knotted again

with you, there has only been bruises, calluses and an attempt to rub them to smooth skin.
what is it that turns us into scars? i thought the past was supposed to be the foundation to strength. 

kathmandu

year after year, i sit at this window, looking out at the kathmandu squalor. nothing changes. only the slant of the light, the moisture in the air and the form of clouds above this city.
after all these years, this city is still mine, just as much as it is yours.