The sky is the bright orange of midnight, and it hangs like salted dew on my tongue. I inhale the filthy perfume with a gasp in, a rattle out, and Mom says not to huff the ozone but it fills me with greedy thoughts of
Is it lonely up here, mountain ghost? Perhaps the beauty makes up for it alone. Perfect symmetry, an ocean of green beneath the white powder snow. It’s famous up here, a painting off the coast of Kanagawa serving to show how beautiful loneliness can be.
I get his text in the middle of the day between ignoring looming paper deadlines and watching my best friend rant. It’s the first sign of life from him in over a month and the messages reads a simple “Sup.” S—soft and hissing, ice creaking