Before Burning.



I thought it would be easier in the summer.  Long days elasticating into nights. The hot air ballooning out the dark, swelling us into a false sense that nothing is lost.

You are smoking a cigarette and reading your book. I wonder if I am merely a character in it, existing only as words, my limbs the letters on which you educate yourself.

I am trapped in parchment, stuck between the beginning and the end.

Perhaps I am only that which is left after you press the cigarette to your lips, I am that which evaporates after each puff.

"Is this going to end as paper or smoke?" I ask.

"I haven't got to that part yet."



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