@sculpthalvesâ
   cigarette smoke forms into plumes of never ending tenderness - clouds in the dark. he remembers laying in the grass once saying,  look,  look âyumi,  that one is a frog! instead,  now his head is cushioned by the cold comfort of concrete and heâs struggling to find shapes,  however abstract,  in the aftermath of his cigarette. â  fuck.  â his mouth taste like ash. he feels as though he is missing something. not slightly,  but the way one misses a limb after itâs been lobbed cleanly off,  the phantom pains so intense he grits his teeth. ( he had googled his name some mornings ago. he wonders if missing an identity is the same as missing a leg. lonely with just the ghost of himself. )Â










