Free Flight

We- you are sitting on your concrete saddle, a few feet away from me. It is windy, it is cold. Frigid. I am for once not tempted by your beauty, but for this moment for this memory, I do admire it. Your hair is drifting into the wind, some of it blown right across your face, over your diabolical grinning full-tooth award winning smile. On the other half of the saddle where I stand, is the roof of the building.

We shoot the breeze with romance, words of friendship at a glance. You laugh at me but do so gently as to not cut my sensitive heart tissue. You laugh because when I join you on the stationary concrete horseback ride, I am scared for my life. I am scared that the wind will pick up and blow me to the other side, where I would be confused for a suicide.

I envision myself tumbling down, shooting my arm out and catching the edge- only to hang by my fingers for seconds, if I am lucky, minutes before I fall to my death. Then, I envision myself standing on the roof again, instead of sitting on the edge where we are, and diving from a running start hands clasped or pointed like a prayer in evolution. I do not know why I should tell you, but I do. I am glad it is you I tell this to.

We sit on the edge, in the wind, in the frigid cold. I do not know whether the moon was full, but I am willing to assume it was- and if not at least a crescent. No one would be joining us tonight on the rooftop. I look deep into your eyes and I do not understand when you tell me why you are not scared. You are not scared because you "trust yourself," I hear you say. Does that mean that I do not trust myself? Is it the height that I fear? Probably.

Years later, I find myself awake at night, thinking about you and I when we were still... on that rooftop.

I find myself wondering how many times you had been alone at the edge,
picturing yourself looking so fucking beautiful,
hands clasped in an evolving prayer,
diving gracefully into the
free.