On the rooftop

There sat she, the darkest hour made the stars quite the scene, whiffs of cold salty air cooling off the heat of her scattered thoughts. The warmth of the old wooden bench smells like nicotine and stale drinks, erratic colorful drawings inscribed on the wood, distracting her emotional hurricane. Sounds of laughter from downstairs’ late gathering affirm this small solitude, bringing sense of unwishful remembrance, pondering through it all now seems like such a drain, unfitting this blue breeze. The tides keep coming and drifting, whispering forgotten songs, tuning desperate melodies, aching from never reaching welcoming shores.

On the roof top, there sat she;
Now distant from her lonesome thoughts
Becoming, drowning in this ever inviting serene