You breathe out and all the world is suddenly colour, reds and yellows summoned from October scrapyards, gliding warm to my ears on curling whispers of truths I want to be lies. I push my hands deeper into empty pockets and shrug my simple shoulders. These bodies are temporary only, borrowed vessels we bruise and batter without care, forgettable beige jelly-bean rental cars left like abandoned lovers in the darkest corner of an airport parking lot. My fingers remember the hopscotch pattern of your phone number - though my head and heart have long since scuttled the ship that bore the actual digits - and I wonder if it is muscle memory that yet retains this shape, or rather scar tissue providing bittersweet reminder through limited motion. “An old war wound”, I’d laugh with friends - a mark left from a battle we both walked away from but nobody really knew the victor. You breathe again and the colours surge, only this time the wind snatches them away before I feel your tones upon my skin. It’s winter, the rain is coming, and you’ve been gone for years.