The roof is barren,
save for the leaves tactfully scattered across it,
as if a giant hand dropped them there,
rearranging them, until they were perfect.
Three leaves here, two there, six in the corner,
huddled together.
Battered, bruised, torn
yet, carefully curling inward,
shielding each other from the frosty autumn wind.

The roof is flat,
and I dangle my legs over the edge, before I lean back.
I wrap my arms around my body,
in a meek attempt to safeguard myself
against the chill that seeps through my thin jacket.

Like the leaves, my thoughts drift,
gently untucking themselves from the quiet crevices of my skull.