After a long day, I like to sit alone for a few hours. On a balcony that has shrunk over the years and had the tongues of hemlocks visiting every now and then. Nobody has stepped on that balcony for months, nobody but me.
If you know what fire sounds like at night, when the cold wind blows on it as wood keeps getting thrown in it; then, you know what heartbreak means.
If you have ever sat at night on your own and lifted your head to the skies, hoping to see a few scattered stars but only finding your reflection in the emptiness of what floats on top of you, then you know what loneliness means.
Tonight I sit on the balcony with my music blasting high and my spine fusing with the back of the chair, making us one. I won’t be able to get out after this. There is a fire under my balcony, and all of the neighbors are throwing in their overused furniture and the books they have never bothered to read… And I am listening to the crackling wood, the burning paper. I turn my head up to the skies as my tears fail to fight against gravity. The foundations are cracking under my feet, and my thighs are blending in with the blue, plastic chair’s feet. I raise my head but there are no stars around to see, and as the stones crack and I’m about to fall, I scream to the sky to bring out the stars… If I’m going to die, I get a last wish. A shooting one:
“When will this hang-over end goddammit.”