I hear a constant base hum all around, the nervous system of the building, carrying electricity and gas and phone conversations to all our respective little boxes. the two short clicks in the walls before the heat comes on with a low whoosh. The plastic tarp over the table on the balcony crunching in the cold wind. The lighter swings back under the pipe undulating back and forth, inhaling the curl as it rises from the tar, exactly the same as before he hit me, only now he's staring at me, hating me.” Without letting go of the pipe, he swings his hand holding the lighter with incredible force, backhanding my face. There's no delineation between the pipe and the smoke and his body. I want to burrow inside the folds like a wind-blown dusting of snow so that each time I melt away, he seeks me out again. I want to travel through his body, seeing what makes him happy, attaching myself to whatever place in him sparks to life on my arrival. I want him to breathe me in, be sent riding on oxygen molecules deep into lungs. I don't know if I'm reaching for the pipe or for him.
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