Infinity on a Rooftop.

He sits on the roof when the nights are just cold or just warm enough. Maybe he’s wearing a jacket, maybe he’s not. His knees are always pulled to his chest, his arms always around them. He’s looking out at the world, at this view he only gets to see by himself.

He wants to jump. Not to die. Never to die.

But to feel the exhilaration he assumes one can only feel by jumping off a roof.

But not alone.

He wants a hand to hold, fingers tightly entwined with his. He wants a voice to whisper in his ear that they are infinite, that they are going to fly. He wants to be a bird, a dream, a breath of air flying from the roof. He wants to be the stars. He wants to see everything, wants to touch it, feel it, taste it.

He wants to be forever in the five seconds it would take to hit the ground.

He wants to taste the night air, to feel it fill him up, to have it’s sustenance be more real than any calories he could ever consume.

But more than anything, he wants to survive the fall. He wants to stand up and dust off his jeans. He wants to prove his invincibility, his infinity. Then go back to the roof and make love to whoever was holding his hand. Roll off the roof in the throws of passion and land on the ground, barely noticing, continuing to fuck, to stare in the eyes of whatever bird took the chance with him.

But there are no other birds trapped in human bodies. He’s the only one. There are no other infinities sitting on their porches waiting for hands to hold.

It’s lonely in the cool, night air, dreaming of flying.