Rooftop

There is a quality to the city that makes you want to eat it. A quality that makes you want to suck its life dry. A quality that makes you want to capture its energy like a thief in the night, and scream it out of my lungs like a terrible disease. But you have lived here all my life, and all you can do is stare. Stare at the puking green neon lights, and lift your feet over the railings that shielded me from death, and watch them hang over the ledge, waiting. The wind picks up and in a moments breath, you almost feel weightless. A weightlessness that scares you, that pounds at your heart like a threat from a knife. And you can't escape how surreal it feels, the air all around you, hurrying. Faster. Encompassing your legs, making them wobble towards their demise. And the people, stories below, are oblivious to what you're doing 20 stories over their pretty heads. They can't feel your breath--unusually cold against the bitter lump swallowing your throat. The tears well up in your eyes, stinging. Stinging. And they still don't know. Maybe they can see a glimpse of the faded rubber from the soles of your shoes, because you danced on the ground, while they danced on you. The wind is blowing harder now, but the sky is so clear that it's lying. You close your eyes, but the water keeps collecting, and the wind keeps blowing, and howling, and blowing. And you're almost losing your balance, like a song losing its pitch to the wind. Your body is numb now, while the city cries in its liveliness. You scream so loud, but nothing comes out of your mouth, because you're screaming from your soul. You look down again, at the puking green neon lights. You feel your breath in your lungs, and you taste the salt on your cheeks, and you get back over the railing. It's time to dust yourself off, and suck the life out of the city--dry.

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