the word is heavy. even the smog that reaches from the sky and clings desperately to the building tops. i wade through smoke-filled rooms and vodka-filled souls, and each step gets heavier as i lose more of myself, as i cling more desperately to myself, like the smog that blurs everything out in its eagerness. i drink in the smoke, from one soul to another, and i feel lighter with each breath i take from you. all the faces are cloudy and washed out in black and grey, but so is mine.
the word is afloat. the smoke dissipates, but it takes me with it. your face is clear as day now, but far beyond reach. i liked it better when everything was heavy and real. when i could feel the chill of the wind and the shiver of your spine.
how afloat, how lost are you, when even smoke feels like an anchor?