My roof is always leaking, but I don’t mind.
I’ve grown to like the sound of rain splattering on the cold metal floor. Tak, tak, tak, I hear the clouds whisper. I shiver and shiver, until they whisper no more.
The color of my roof always changes. Sometimes it’s gray; sometimes it’s white. Sometimes it’s black. Sometimes it’s yellow.
My favorite is when it’s pink and violet at the same time, when even it struggles to define its own color. Or maybe I’m the one who comes short with a proper definition. Maybe my mind is too narrow. Maybe my feet are too sore.
Maybe I can’t hear anything above the clouds’ whispers anymore.
Sometimes, I hear voices thunder from beneath me. These voices are always angry, never sweet. Sometimes I wonder if the voices can hear me too. If they can hear my pleas for quiet and peace.
Not my own peace, but theirs.
Theirs.
It’s always been a struggle to climb my way to the third floor. I use a rusted ladder, where every other step is either gone or broken. Like the teeth of a child who has went too long without a visit to the dentist.
I haven’t been to the dentist.
I haven’t been to a doctor in so long.
I should, though. My feet are sore.
On most nights, the winds are cold and unforgiving. On these nights I quiver, even if I try not to. I don’t quiver too heavily though. Not as to let the voices below hear me. Not as to drown the sound of rain. Tak, tak, tak.
I treasure the days that give me warmth. The sun is my most consistent and most welcome friend.
I’ve known the sun since the moment I’ve lived.
I live on the third floor. I’ve known no other home.
There is no third floor.
My roof is the sky.
My feet are sore.
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