v u l v a l i c i o u s
Smoke trails across the roof outside my window. A white dog. Or maybe a plastic bag turning flips over and over upon itself.
You don't really exist, or you can't exist. A greyhound on wobbly legs fighting its way through the cold streets. Your teeth chatter whether it's cold or not. I think about holding your face soft with one hand and slapping it hard with the other. Dream about that look of shock.
But there is still this white smoke falling into a white sky, whitening the sky, erasing building tops. White smoke trailing as from a lit cigarette. The way that smoking becomes a sexual act in the right hands, with the right mouth, with the person who won't speak as they inhale, exhale. The way their eyes glaze and then focus: nicotine, tobacco, life, I am dying right now and it's just what I needed; I am living right now, a young and follied life. I am all that I need with this cigarette.
I have all that I need with these buildings that rise up taller than trees. The ones that pour smoke down in the winter, the remnants of steam heat.
I envy knowing that life will go on through the harm that you do it. Feeling these buildings as talismans of protection instead of destructors and prisons.
I imagine your height as protection. I imagine stealing that protection from under you, making myself tall taller tallest towering. I make myself rail thin and grey, and survive here. Completely.