All day long I leave a gasp of space for you to inhabit as I exhale. Fundamentally unsound, the air breaks with my cry, which is nearly inaudible. Emotion inscrutable, I move invisible, to my own self even, inhabiting small spaces, reading blank pages, becoming something else.
When ever someone asks what is the thing that I miss, I say it is the taste of fruit the juices running free staining my neck and chest. It is the thing of love that is too sweet, chills my teeth, stains my fingers the smell of a thing broken open and dispersed into the air microcosmic confetti.
I think if someone where to take me in her hands and pull apart my chest, I might smell like that, and float through the air like a fog passing a street lamp, long division.
