Poetic Empathy

Prose 2: Perhaps.

I watch... wait for something to happen. The slow, steady breeze gently plays with my hair. The bright lights of the buildings glare, even though their inhabitants have gone to sleep. I look up to the sky... no star in sight. The artificial lights overwhelm the beauty of the moon.
The breeze is faster now... it blows in my face. My hair flaps like the flag that hangs from a pole nearby. I stretch out my arms and close my eyes. It feels as though I am flying. I still see the lights through my closed lids.
I open my eyes. My vision is blurred slightly. The bright lights become small dots as in an image out of focus. I turn around and look through the open window into my untidy apartment. I can see the mirror I broke earlier. My unmade bed is draped in the curtains I tore down. A glass was knocked over, its clear contents spilled onto the stained carpet. As I turn back around, I catch a glimpse of the array of orange containers with their white caps off. A few of them had fallen over.
My face is wet... not raining outside, though. I look down my arms. The scars are still red all across. My view diverts back to the sky. I try to block out the city lights. I see a faint glow of a star... or is it a satellite?
Is it strange to stand on the outside of a balcony railing? Perhaps...
The ledge is just enough to accommodate my bare feet. It's peaceful up here. The city is silent. It would be better without the blinding lights.
I sway a little, moving with the wind that tries to keep me upright.
I spread my arms like wings, yet to fly is not my intention. It never was...
I look up one more time in hopes of seeing just one star... stupid city lights. I close my eyes, breathe in the cool, night air, and step off. The feeling of falling... it almost feels free.
Is it strange to feel safe when falling? Perhaps...