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."