I spy so many rooftops through the crack in my attic,
is one of them yours?
Tonight the setting sun soaks the sky peach, this streaming amber light may seem to project optimism,
but out of seven billion people in shotgun shacks or LA mansions,
can we lift every roof to check for our soulmates,
without breaking their weathered slate shelters?
Taking a meander through an alleyway,
maybe you’re in the house with those perfect window boxes,
we could take Saturday trips to a garden centre, if you’d like,
you’d probably say that I’m the prettiest flower,
and through gritted teeth, I’d try to believe you.
I look into every windscreen and under every bike helmet,
and imagine summer picnics and winter walks,
or eternal talks under the stars,
turning over every rock as if you’re going to be there.
But maybe you’re in the house with the echo of aggression,
from an angry girl that you thought was the one,
her words spewing hate into the roadside where I stand,
I’d hope you’d wish for better.
What if you’re stood on a clifftop?
So bursting with contempt towards this cruel place,
in another life I could’ve coaxed you from that ledge,
but our paths haven’t crossed yet,
and now they never will.