I used to be afraid of rooftops,
living, as they did, at the horizon
of things. It felt too fragile,
as if the line could be crossed,
but never lived at. It felt as
though we were sneering at
the gods. As if we were setting
up a tailgate at a sacred altar.
And I was too afraid of falling.
Afraid that shingle would become
unpredictable air. I know,
given the chance, I will jump.
It’s not about the end result.
Always the process: to fly,
to flail against gravity
as if against a god who knows better.
So I avoid rooftops, and always
take the elevator. I’ve given up
on the Space Needle, the Statue
of Liberty, and the Grand Canyon.
I fixate on endings. The Happily
Evers, but when I’m with
you I forget there are hours,
minutes, and seconds.
Look into my eyes and I can
face the rooftop. Instead of
the emptiness, I’ll look at
you, or the stars in space.
Or maybe, they’re the same.