"The View From My Window is of the Roof"
10/19/05
The view from my window is of the roof
each tile uniform and gray.
Sure, there is a window down about six feet,
but the glass is frosted and the light blurry.
It’s cold now, and leaves dance in the street.
Power lines crisscross above my head, buzzing, and
full of energy I cannot seem to muster.
This weight inside seems impossible to face.
Distracted, I look to sky;
it is leaden and the clouds hang low: I feel trapped.
Asphalt at my feet and dead grass –
I used to think autumn was my favorite season.
Your picture is in my sock drawer, overturned.
The wood grain must be fascinating.
The last time I heard your voice was a few days ago,
when I hung up on you and held my head in my hands.
“Someday I might get over you,” he sings in my headphones,
and how I hope it’s the truth.
This strange limbo seems endless;
I am unsure and I think I've lost myself.
I surround myself with crayons: red, indigo, daffodil yellow.
But I cannot stop looking out the window at the gray grid of the roof.
Would a fall from the third floor be enough to kill a person?
I know it’s silly, but that gray roof isn’t the last thing I want to see.
Please throw open the window so I can feel the breeze.
I shiver when the cold hits my skin, but it makes me feel
alive
and I haven’t felt that way in a while.
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