Countdown

It's 4 in the morning,
                            we're 3 fingers-widths apart,
                                                                    and 2 tired for whispered goodbyes
                                                                                                                        to any 1.
4, 3, 2, 1 . . . and I'm falling.

This rooftop is too small for us.

Underneath a non-azure, nameless sky,
        surried by cloud clusters,
                         I muster only enough to gaze.
Falling, onto concrete that consumes a white lace skirt,
jaws of pavement that grip me, convince me of their solidness.

This rooftop is too real for us.

It's like remembering the lyrics to a long-forgotten song,
                                                                                    my unsung rooftop boy.

Dangled legs loom,
     tempting vertigo in indigo jeans,
it seems so easy
                       to lie here, calm on the cool concrete,
death and debauchery a thousand feet beneath us,
talking about Hemingway
and the future of nostalgia.

This rooftop transcends us.

A place where stale cigarettes
    smell like coffee in hazelnut hair
and empty beer bottle dreams
become fine wine
tossed in the air above

the rooftop that greets us.

We curl together like parantheses
(and I know this is not the end of me.)