Your hand felt warm and foreign: a hospital, an airport. A touch like public grief. A shirt stiff and ill-fitting as a prescription slip. The mountain looked like waste paper, and all I could see for miles were products of an obsessive mind. I needed to hear you for the first time again.

The seams were stitched tight, but the fabric unraveled. All we had then were the barren oceans of our skin (sad remnants) under the buzzing, popping light of that blue moon. Something clinical, and I don’t know why you wouldn’t talk. I don’t know why you wouldn’t talk.

You floated away, terminal, in a pyre. Those adrenaline flames reached higher than I’d expected. Before I knew it, I’d traversed that waste paper mountain, and that crackle sounded static.

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