The rooftops were always the warmest in July. July, a thunderstorm month, a month when the rain pounds hard on the windows and I open them anyway, the hot air rushing out my apartment, replaced with swift, sweeping, cool handshakes sent forth by the raindrops. I buy flowers in July, potted purple hydrangeas and dainty, darling daisies perched happily on my kitchen counter and bookshelves.
I pick the petals from a barely breathing sunflower and stare across to the tops of other buildings coated in sun. The summer air grows stale with stickiness and sweat and I can’t bear to move. It churns and dank fingers wrap around my neck, closing in on my throat, threatening to cut me off. The cars below crowd and the familiar ring of honking echoes; afternoons bring a daily dose of madness, but I would brave out the chaos, spending my free time walking the streets I could only hope I’d never tire of. But today I’m still. Today feels like years gone by and I only want today to become a yesterday lost in a sea of tomorrows. I want to become lost in a sea of tomorrows.
I’m weary at the familiar smell of cigarette smoke, the absence; it doesn’t clam up in the breeze and I never realized how badly it burned in my chest until the minute I stopped breathing it. The sky above me stretches on for miles, strips of blue sewn seamlessly together, not a wisp of white in sight. What a goddamn beautiful day. I’m shrouded in a dense euphoria, livid at how easily it all comes together. The sun’s reflection from the shiny glass windows of the building opposite mine blinds me. Reflections, reflections...red eyes, blurry face. God, I’m tired of looking at myself.
The globe halts, and I hang by a thread, my feet dangling off the edge. I can only hold on for so long, the thin line separating what’s real from what isn’t. My body aches with unfamiliarity. I can’t deal with the space, the roof top never looking so endless. Out ahead, the skyline blushes and the river glints, a mischievous smile glowing on the lows and highs of the swells. The water rushes harsh, and it’s pulling me in, waves ripping my skin, cutting me open, searing my veins, thinning out my blood. My lungs collapse, my ribs cave in, and nothing seems to bring me back. Not city lights and taxi cabs, not the stupid daisies, not the rain. I’m down under and I’ll never be alone again; not for a day, not for a month. Not ever.
It’s getting late and I start to fade. The rooftops were always the warmest in July and as I limp down the stairs, I think about how easy it is to slip.