Words From the Fragile Spire

Parking Garage Sunset

He walks up slopes of concrete; stumbles as they shove

him back, sprints as they thrust him to the floors above.

He passes rows and rows of frozen cars, thinks of

each one ravenous for movement yet left to linger.

He comes to the rooftop, the wind like a whisper

on his ears – the itch of an inexistent whir.

He rests at an undefined edge, his legs afloat;

a warmness in his chest, like he could almost float

to the sun, clipped by the horizon – that remote,

gentle kiss before submersion, then fall of night.

He stares to the city in the distance, the sight

of hopeful potential, of regrets to rewrite.

He turns his head from the fiery line in the sky,

like the line between closed lips; between he and I.