My childhood cat died under my desk, his mouth open, gasping for air as the skin on his body retracted into itself.

I get caught up in the feeling,

the feeling of my tongue thrusting against my raw gum, like the burn is still there.

And there, there was a man.

He stood beside my bed, my friend did not like him. Nor did my mom.

He had a pale blue figure, but the first thing I noticed about him was his armpit,

it was hollow

as if he had drawn every breath from his being.

I liked him because he was quiet, and each time he took a deep breath, I could count the ribs one by one on his body.