There is a woman who sits outside on a warm spring night, smoking. The air around her, beside her, so still that she feels no movement of it against her skin, and the sky so thick with clouds that not a star shines through the patch alloted her, though it glows pink, still, in the west from the going down.
Her face glows pale in the electric light.
"O," she says in smoke, lips and tongue pushing it skyward.
The air, the temperature of her skin.