Suit jacket

There was a death.

Two days before, I saw him, head dunked into the carcass of a car. The sun shone on his belly. It played it like a drum. He laughed. I said I would see him a day from then, in another city, under another sky. It was supposed to be sunny then too. He beamed to me “Won’t need a coat then either.” His arms were bare and greasy and wonderful.

They are still now, folded across his chest, two days later, in this very messy now. He is wearing a coat of sorts. His suit is black. His arms look like sticks. Is that possible? How is it that breath balloons the body so boldly? How is it that even now, in front of him again, I am unsure if I am breathing myself?

But I eventually exhale away, let others see him. I do not know if they can, though. The rays of light bleed into the room from the outside. And besides, they are crying. I need to clean my glasses, I think, for my eyesight used to be able to notice such minute things.

The room is cold. I have not brought a jacket. I wish I had.