A night-time skyline

Observatories are nestled in the valleys of my skull.

Invisible fingertips,
like dry tongues thirsty for a taste of damp city haze,

brush the brim of that foggy aurora.

From my observatories,
my arms seem to arch over that shimmering grime as if the architects themselves had planned for highways to stretch from my shoulder to my wrist.

A tempest of bleary dimness tests my adoration, but I can still feel the residue of desire 

in-between my wrinkled fingertips.