merging traffic

I will write a ballad to be screamed from rooftops overlooking a grey street on the apex of a summer brink. When the clouds have died and darkened to a subtle red and orange, you will hear my voice glistening and gliding through the air. And the subtle vibration all along your skin, the side of your face, your neck, your breasts, your hair, tingling, will at once entice you, but later simply anger you. The epicenter of the issued scream will be impossible to determine, lost in the sprawl and the cooling, heavy air of a impending night. Madness will follow. Nights drenched in sweat, grasping and tearing sheets, knuckles torn, nails snapped. With much rigor, you can tear yourself away, you can make the dreams stop. And you will. The nights will once again be peaceful, but underneath that subtle lie, a minor truth remains. A truth hidden well, for it is truly inconsequental. You never found me, elevated on rooftops screaming.