The Roof Under the Stars

it’s quiet on the roof. it’s so quiet i can’t hear anything but the steady circulation of the breath in my lungs and the traffic below me, so far away it’s more a faint buzz than anything else. every so often the relative silence is broken by a wail of sirens, a shriek of brakes, even the odd gunshot once or twice. this isn’t a good neighbourhood.

it’s quiet on the roof and the stars are out. they’re bright above my head, distant and hazy but so very, very beautiful. there’s a million metaphors from a million mouths to describe the luminous balls of plasma in the sky but nothing quite comes close to capturing the way they burn.

it’s quiet on the roof and the ground is far away. it doesn’t look it, though. it looks like i could touch it if i leaned down and pressed my fingers to the concrete, a giant among ants. my head tips forward and my legs kick back against the brick, and i dangle in the space between what has been and what can never be.

it’s quiet on the roof and i am alone. there was a boy, before, a pretty boy, a funny boy, a fucking heartless bastard boy, but he’s gone now and i am alone. i don’t care. i never cared. i’ve seen sinking ships go down with more grace than him. it’s okay, though. i never wanted him anyway.

it’s quiet on the roof. it’s so quiet i can’t hear anything at all, not the cars or the criminals or the crude mechanics of breathing. i lean forward, just an inch, then an inch more, then another, then another, then-

then i’m falling through the air, the wind whipping past my outstretched arms, and it feels like flying, it feels like i have wings and they’re lifting me through the air, closer and closer to the luminous balls of plasma in the sky.

but i do not have wings and i cannot fly. not quite. not yet.

it’s quiet on the roof. it won’t be for much longer.