A Love Unafraid of High Places
The sun looked like the yoke of a perfectly cooked poached egg, yellow sliding over the edges of the boats, the sidewalks and the jagged towers of downtown. I could feel it caught in my eyelashes, kissing my hands and slipping between the spaces in my teeth as I smiled. The light filled my lungs as I watched from 553 metres above the city. Golden hour filled my lungs and the smile of that boy who was caught in my brain.
I am incredibly small but incredibly safe. Safe in his arms, slung around my shoulders like a favourite jacket or my childhood blanket. Safe in this bustling, tilting, overwhelming city of poetry and passion and poverty. I gulp in the air like I do when anxiety pants hot on my neck, but I am not anxious. I simply want to be full. Full of the sky, full of the laughter around me, full of the smell of his shirt. His kiss on my earlobe does more to my pulse than the staggering height, forehead to window and gazing down towards the harbour.
I realize I have come to love this city, which I now see from above. The blemishes look tiny and gilded in gold from this distance. The chaotic, lovely rush no longer overwhelms but excites me. I am truly lucky. Lucky to have the chance to share my experience with six billion others who dream and ache and love just like I do. Lucky to live in a tiny floating box on the seventh floor and sleep in a bedroom where the sun rises in my window and now, tonight, to see it setting from a taller floating box in the sky. For one of the first times I don’t feel that quiet longing for endless fields and sky that never seem to collide. Contentment is a cat marching in circles on my stomach before curling up to stay. I didn’t realize I was in love until I was 1800 feet in the air. In love with this city and in love with the boy who took me to the top of the CN Tower.