I took a pill in Chang’an, neon dusk on neon hands,
tasted 2,000 years of dust, let the skyline stitch my lungs.
Monks in earbuds loop my hook, lotus beats beneath their robes;
I’m a ghost in subway glass, mirrors ask where home still goes.
Gold plaques on the palace gate, echo streams I can’t escape—
every heart I ever broke now scrolls across the sky in tape.
So I smile for the selfie stick, sell the sadness back as light;
crowd screams my name till it fades, leaving only quiet night.