2:36 am and we’re on the roof staring out at Beirut

Michelle is leaning against an awning

Chris is cross-legged in front of a plant

and Noelle’s cigarette is dangling from her hand,

 the ember at the end of stick glowing then fading 

and gently back again

(like my paranoia)

The ever-present breeze stirs us up another round of goosebumps,

 on the house.

well,

on the roof.

The night has a chill to it that coordinates itself to the one running down my spine

when I try to fathom how I am here

on this roof

overlooking Beirut in the suspended time of 2:36 am—

the city has not slept. And despite the shadows under my eyes that

seductively (sadistically) reach up to swing from my lashes, these eyes will hold the baggage                  

for five more minutes.

 The old women will whisper over their coffee in secret during the day but the trees continue the conversation under the moonlight—                                      I can never decipher what they’re saying. But the persistent chill down my spine leads me to believe that what we are saying doesn’t bode well with whatever is hiding in the trees

nevermind that whatever is there was planted by the fear that comes from hearing whispers in the corner of streets that are carried away by the wind and translated to the trees

and perceived here, by me

 (five more minutes)

 now, at 2:36am, I am hearing things. I am hearing Michelle, as she stares over the city and out to the sea and she,

she knows what she is talking about.

And Chris’ voice, rising louder, and louder still with conviction

while Noelle stays resolute in tone and demeanor all along, her words winding their way around us as she exhales them in a swirl of nicotine that contorts and shapes to form her ideas before making their way out to the city lights.

And here I am, shifting my gaze around the grounds uncomfortably.

Jumpiness. Reactionary shushes,

hesitant questions regarding the severity of declaring

everything

to the night air.

And I raise my voice to float around the grounds with theirs, but it wavers. Falters. With crippled wings, it floats back down like a feather from the tail of an ambushed bird making the flight of its life

 My inspiration and conviction has shot off into the sky without a voice to guide it, as I stare off into the city and wonder which flickering light has attracted it when I could not be strong enough to compel it

and which light has fizzled it to a lifeless carcass of something that just was.

like a hopeless mosquito to the light.

 (five more minutes.)

Crossing metaphors is what I do best. I bleed ink. I am stronger on paper.

But paper burns at 451 while the soul burns on long after the body gives out.

If I can’t even declare it to the sky, what do I really have?

Right now I have this roof. 

And my friends here on this roof

in this city at this hour. 

How much longer will I have this?

(five more minutes)

The trees are still whispering.

Exasperated, I think at them “You are just paper. You burn at 451.

I am stronger than you.

I am stronger than paper.

451 times stronger than paper.”

Michelle leaning against the awning, Chris cross-legged in front of a plant, and Noelle’s cigarette burning to a stump, 

a bright glowing stump

and I guess you could say that our home is weathering just as well.

Almost burnt out by the constant fire of war on every battleground.

Yet it burns on. a bright glowing stump in perpetual darkness that burns with the fire of a million hearts that won’t let it die. 

A million hearts to shoot life up from the roots.

I won’t let you die, Lebanon.

 It has been longer than five minutes.

We all go quiet. But not really— not from the inside. And I look up at the sky again and yeah. my voice failed tonight. But I’ve still got the heart that beats in sync with these people

these friends, on this roof

in this city at this hour.

As long as I’ve got the heart, I know I’ve got the voice that’ll follow its beat.

Even if it gets zapped by the light and fizzles out a few times before it makes it to the sky