height

At night i sleep in a locked cocoon, bounded by darkness and nose to the tip of a seven story industrial building. Over the snow, through the courtyard, past the neighbors of low watt hovering mechanics, calls to allah and above the moist, red leather punch bags of a tai kwon do gym. Throughout the day, i tune into the shin slaps, church bells, the swinging meat carvery, abatoir callouts and at night, watch the ceiling lower itself to a tent, inches above my face and mind. There i am, dreaming of sea and aniseed as the window whistles in black paper wind, tapping the canvas and smothering a city into a carnival of sensory guess work.

I lie half awake in warmth and pull composed by the misunderstanding of the dimensions around me. A couple of feet a couple of feet away from a drop, that's where i'm resting. I doubt you would walk this close to the edge on the outside of a tall building but rest assured, i am in no danger here. No one in the building is as high above and as safe as i am.

Not in this bed but in others that i too have called home, i have dreamt about standing so tall that my legs entangle and my lungs no longer contain a single breath of logic. I tip toe and sway the 60 plus shuffle, flapping my arms like a drunk vicar, resting vaseline cracked hands onto the crowns of sober choir boys until the first match in the abyss is struck and naturally, i am usurped through the mouth, my compass spinning a roulette and gambling me to the edge.