The Roof Poem by Raphael Gouws

Night air biting.
Concrete cold under my shoes.
City lights stretching out like they're trying to pull me in —
but they don't care if I land or shatter.

It's quiet up here.
Too quiet.
Like the world muted itself
just to hear me decide.

The wind is a hand on my back,
not pushing,
just reminding me how easy it would be
to take one step forward and never think again.

And I'm thinking.
Too much.
About the habits I swore I'd break,
the faces I can't unsee,
the love that came with bruises,
the ghosts that still move inside my skin.

My light's been dim for so long,
I can barely tell if it's still burning.
My eyes don't sparkle anymore —
they just… reflect.
Whatever's in front of me.
Nothing more.

I imagine falling.
Quick.
Clean.
Final.
No more cycles.
No more relapses.
No more pretending I'm fine.

But then I remember…
this isn't the first time I've stood at an edge.
And every time I've chosen to stay,
there's been something waiting later
that I couldn't see in that moment.
Some small warmth,
some unexpected laugh,
a reminder that the story wasn't done.

So I step back.
Not because it's easy,
but because I'm stubborn enough to see
what tomorrow might throw at me.

The wind keeps blowing.
The city keeps glowing.
And I'm still here.