Strangers again; a million gray shirts on a million eleven AM mornings, the smell of cigarettes lingering. A man can do whatever he wants if he so wishes: a privilege of the blessedly unattached. Inhale, stick between two fingers, exhale-- him backing her into a wooden table, hand on her face, kisses melting in the heat. Inhale, his lungs fill, exhale-- him driving like a madman down a deserted highway, her shirt getting caught her fingers, drunken laughter leaving a scent on her gin-soaked skirt. Inhale, chemicals taking effect, exhale-- him lying in bed with soft piano in the background, her head hesitant to so much as rest on his chest, their hands clasped in clandestine affection.
Inhale, here is everything that was; exhale, here is everything that is no longer. The world does not split into before and after; it just continues to be. Smoke rises; leaves and branches blur into cancerous clouds in the sunridden afternoon. There is nothing left to say as there was not much to say before. It goes on.
