Like thieves, we stole through the night.
We waited for the last pair of taillights to pass
and then crossed the street in the vacuous silence of their wake.
You were several steps ahead,
familiar with the way.

The school was immutable in its brick slumber.
We pressed our faces to cold glass and peered
into darkened classrooms populated by slouched shadows.
Emergency exit signs reflected gently in waxen linoleum,
lingering like lipstick.

We continued to the back of the building,
half carried on rebellion’s breeze,
half scared we’d see the principal or a cop or my mom.
Our steps scraped echoes from the parking lot pavement,
we exhaled momentary contrails into the autumn air.

This is it, you said, as if to God,
in front of a tall conglomeration of metal vents and conduits,
set in gravel, surrounded by chain link fence.
You began to climb and I followed,
the delinquent rattle of our ascent shaking the evening calm.

The rooftop surprised our feet with skull-sized stones.
The deep knocks of their shifting gave our steps new meaning
as we moved across the sky.
You sat confidently on the ledge,
took a cigarette from your front coat pocket and lit it.

It was then I nearly pushed you,
my head flashing with lightning rage–but it passed.
I sat a few feet from your oblivious form,
requested a cigarette, and surveyed the sleeping town
from those three stories
that seemed like thirty that night.