I want to see the world from the top of things,
like the Empire State Building, or a radio signal tower in Las Vegas, or the back of a wind turbine up North some place. I want to face the sunset from a different degree, my angles going obtuse the slightest bit; closer to falling but loving the view. And maybe I'll like the look of tiny black umbrellas walking in hurried huddled masses in every direction; or empty streets with no people screaming for justice or freedom or water or love; or the stifling cold on exposed cheeks and the fog that so quickly creeps.
I want to see the world atop a million balconies;
I want to sit pretty on a black metal garden chair, its curls rusting on the backrest, and watch a hundred separate lives all unwind like clockwork. People becoming and unbecoming next to each other, giving and taking in their shoebox spaces, never noticing the rats next door love just as much if not more. I want to sip coffee that tastes like shit at six in the morning as I stand on the fire escape and watch my neighbors drag themselves into the world, heavy with duty and last-night's-sleep.
And then finally,
I want to see the world from underneath you. You're breathing the push and pull of the moon, and I can feel the ocean against me. A slow strangle to keep you there.
