Did you disappear, or did you finally arrive somewhere I can't follow? I keep thinking about the weather. How everything gets damp before it disappears. The walls. The windows. The clothes against my skin. Even the air feels like it remembers you. Maybe that's what leaving is— not becoming nothing, but becoming moisture. Something I can't hold. Something I can't wipe away. You said you wanted somewhere else. So tell me— did you make it? Or are you still somewhere inside this heavy air, trying to get dry?
