The Nest

Lyrics

Not down. Never down tonight.
The house is breathing too slow, too deep.
The pull is up. Past the sleeping doors, past the clocks.
Up to the air.

Through the attic, where the dust smells like paper and time.
I don't look left. The door to the Taxidermy Room stays shut in my head.
Its glass eyes watch the dark, but not me. Not tonight.
The Toy Room is quiet, its little wars are over until morning.
Past the Attic Landing, where the air gets thin.
Just the last ladder now. The one painted to look like the wall.

The roof door groans. The whole sky rushes in.
Out on the slate, cold through my socks.
The Widow's Walk is over there, a perfect square of waiting.
But my kingdom is crooked.
Over the ridge, behind the tallest chimney, where no one ever looks.
Where the tar is still soft from a summer that happened in 1953.

And here it is. There's no door but you're inside.
The Nest. Not made of twigs, but of what was left.
A shipping crate for a wall. A threadbare blanket for a floor.
A shard of mirror to hold a piece of the moon.
This is the hundred-and-first room. The one we built with our eyes closed.

This is the cockpit of the house. The real one.
From here, all the other rooms are just cargo below.
The city is a carpet of ember-light, and I'm the only one flying.
I remember bringing the blanket up here, or I remember the memory of it.
The difference is a line drawn in water.
It smells like rain, even on a clear night.

The silence here has a shape. It's curved, like a bowl to hold things.
And the starlight isn't quiet.
Every pinprick of light has a sound, the hum of a tiny silver bell.
A chorus that you can only hear when you're this high up, this alone.
I have a map of it. I drew it on the inside of the crate.
A map of the sounds the stars make.

This is The Nest. There's no door but you're inside.
Not made of twigs, but of what was left over.
A shipping crate for a wall. A threadbare blanket for a roof against the sky.
A piece of us to hold a piece of the moon.
This is the hundred-and-first room. The one we dreamed into the blueprints.

The house sleeps. The city sleeps.
And up here...
The sky is turning its page.
Slowly. So slowly.