The Ash

The ash falls away from me in an inhalation. It spirals and falls, dancing merrily between us, caught in the wind, given freedom. It looks like a slow, polluted snowfall, scattered and ignored until I breathe in. once that happens, it pushes away from me, my movements to catch it only pulling them between my fingers, just out of reach, though I could touch it if I wanted to. I can’t hold it, only touch. After that, it leaves. Or I do. The wind pushes it, my breath pushes it. When I breathe in, I hold it in rapt funeral amazement, lingering, waiting, coming closer.

Finally it takes its place on the velvet jacket she is wearing, my velvet jacket, now hers. I shiver in the cold, shiver in my leather coat, smelling of impending death and sweetness. I pinch the ash from the jacket, pulling it from the clinging fabric (it picks and holds things). She makes a questioning sound; I feel it in my chest, feel her jaw graze my collarbone as she lifts her head.

“Nothing.” I say. She moves her head back to where it was.


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