roof tiles made purely of gravel

by Sofi O., 14

What I want to know is
did you think you would fly?
A bird diving into the clouds
wings sprouting from your back
the bones on your shoulder blades becoming spindly feathers.
Can you not see your mortality?
Shaking like blown glass not yet dry
and me trying to grasp on to it
knowing you might let it go,
or can you simply not see the ropes that tie us to each other?
They are lenient
but a quick tug could send me falling over the edge after you
our bodies hitting each other when we hit the ground
and our chests imploding simultaneously.
My soft feet may have been cut by the rungs of the ladder
my hands and wrists burnt by the sun as we sat
but I would let my body burn twice over
if it meant I could clutch on to you
for even just a minute longer
and keep your glass globes
safe inside my own pocket.
San Francisco, California