Rooftop

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You are baking concrete in the sun
And cherry-tinted, sun kissed cheeks.
You are a flat, stuffy air mattress
And stars like smiling eyes in a black burned sky.
You are long anticipated phone conversations
And the whispered prayers of a tiny voice.
You’re a stone handkerchief
Soaking up countless tears
And the constant whirring of motorcycles
Floating up like clouds to my ears.
You’re the never same view
Of a ballerina pink sunset
And no barrier
Between me and the night sky.
You’re the hard ground on my back
When I lay down.
You’re pineapple slushies
And the enticing smell of lamb
Drifting out the windows from the houses all around.
You’re a foot
Stepped outside two sliding glass doors
And a cold charcoal railing
To hold back a fall.
You’re the best view in the neighborhood,
Like a bird’s vision as he sweeps across the sky.
You’re the dandelion yellow summer sun
And the mint bite of an icy wind.
You’re a dying cactus sitting in the corner
And a patio table and chairs.
You’re dinner guests watching the horizon,
Paranoid mothers beckoning children away from the edge
And a concerned father watching his daughter cry.
You’re my rooftop.





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