The morning sun is low and the shape of a half-eaten cookie. Curly smoke comes out of buildings below, moving through the air like long, hot fettuccine pasta straight from a pot.
In my bed, I feel cold. I say Louis’s name over and over again and I close my eyes. I imagine his body is giving warmth to mine. We lie together, like tangled vines whispering floating words to each other. Holding hands, we listen to the sound of two breaths moving at the same time.