Snow In August

There's a cold hallway in my building that leads to the roof.  Dish washer empty, curtains pulled together, I wonder where to hide the key.  That cold hallway will still be there tomorrow morning, but I'll stand in the middle of it until my neighbor's light goes off.

I figure one day I'll have somewhere to be on nights like this.  Maybe you'll invite me to go for Chinese.  Maybe we'll finally go to Moab.  Maybe that carnival will still be open, and maybe your plans will fall through.  Maybe we'll ride the ferris wheel, twice.  And maybe I won't get sick.  But maybe if I do, you'll buy me ice cream to calm my stomach.  And maybe you won't think that's lame.

There's a girl in my building who passes me every Sunday on her way up to the top.  I can hear her calling out into the open sometimes.  "My days are empty, every day."  And I believe it's true.  Because it's our collective truth.  She'll be the framework and I'll be the floor, and he'll be the walls, and you'll be the roof.  We'll be the box, and everything will just be expected.  Cream paint with complementing shades of beige.  Pottery barn furnished.  And a pug.  Christmas will always be on December 25th, and school will always start in August.  Mondays will be long and Fridays will be fast and the living room still needs to be vacuumed, I asked you to do that two weeks ago. And that picture you drew in Preschool has been on the fridge for twenty years because you haven't yet made something better to replace it, not because your mom likes it there.

Maybe it'll snow this August, and they'll cancel school.

Or maybe it'll be just the same as it's always been, and you won't offer to carry my books.

And maybe someday I'll figure out how to open that door at the end of that cold hallway that leads up to the roof.  And I'll find that girl that passes me every Sunday.  And I'll ask her why she hasn't jumped yet.  And she'll say, "I thought you'd never ask."

That's when she jumps.