the condominium i have stayed in
for almost two years now
stands at forty-five
stories high.
from the ground below
it looks like some skyscraper
a scrambled mess of uniformity
and abstraction.
i live on the thirty-sixth floor.
sometimes,
as i stare up its great height,
i find myself counting the windows,
trying to pinpoint my temporary home
from my blurry place on the earth below.
around this tower of concrete there is only air.
behind it the sky sits white and endless.

i live on the thirty-sixth floor.
i find myself thinking:
if i jump,
i'd never survive the fall.
maybe
it is one of those high-enough cliffs
that i'd feel myself falling
for an age
before the shatter.
a breathless,
screaming
thrill
before the end.

after looking my fill
i bring my gaze to the path in front of me again,
my mind returned to earth,
and walk,
steady.

i live on the thirty-sixth floor.
once, i opened the door
to the great open sky
and met the eyes
of the earth below.
the height brought with it
a vertigo i could not name.
from here,
the road below was perhaps as thick as a finger.
my heart pounded in time
with the shriek of traffic.
my feet lifted onto my toes
and i thought:
the fall would **** me,
easy.
i thought:
i am so small.
the idea is comforting
in the strangest way.

i step back,
my feet refinding floor tile,
hands fumbling for the handle,
and close the door.