Rough shingles stick to socks.
Sitting on a forty-five degree angle.
The yellow light from my bedroom backlights as I look up at the silver glow in the sky.
A sharp familiar chirp from nowhere lines the streets.
Fills them with a peaceful sound.
Feeling on the edge.
Literally and figuratively.
Only one story off the ground, but feel my body is somewhere different.
A bit closer to the heavens.
Weightless and ungrounded.
Ready to go anywhere.
Mist against the chalky gutters looks slippery.
Feet are dirty but strong.
Rooted on the roof.
If only I could sleep out here.
Set up a blanket and drift off outside.
But still close to home.
Anchored to reality but ready to embrace the night and it’s infinite darkness.
The moon tempts me with it’s mysterious presence.
The only thing that keeps the rest of the sky from not being completely overwhelming and vast.
The distinct edge of the window sill scrapes and digs into the low of my back.
Nagging and reminding me of the world I must go back to.
Crawl back in; hunched, slow, and small.
Fingers drop slowly and firmly into the carpet.