Prologue
Somewhere between façade and face,
I linger—
half building, half breath.

Body I
The wall remembers laughter from an upper window.
The balcony sighs: we’ve seen this snout before.
Graphite ghosts climb the stonework,
sketching my outline without asking permission.
I stare back at the city’s eyelids—
those double windows blinking in slow regret.
Each line is a whisper of dust made visible.

Body II
I am the passerby who stayed too long.
My reflection built its own apartment.
People above discuss light, but I only know shadow.
When the pencil lifts, rain begins.
Even the flag leans toward forgetting.
My nose catalogs scents of nostalgia and brick.
I breathe, and the house exhales.

DADA-Break
oink—rue—rue—oink
porc—pencil—brick—sniff—oink!
RUE!

Closing
I wait here in graphite twilight,
not pig, not wall, just continuity.
Tomorrow, someone will redraw me smaller,
and the windows will blink again.