In our house I am sin, and you are a window.
In our bedroom I am the rest of the house, I am a countdown from five and you are the lights which turn off, you are a rooftop, you are glowing haze on a nearly distant horizon.
In this house I cannot breathe you in anymore. Our bed is made from your sheet lightning.
In our room, under the bed, there are three square, white boxes.
In the first there is a small wooden elephant.
In the second there is a blank sheet of paper, folded in two.
The third is empty.
In this room I am alone. In this house I am sin. I don't think I'm here.