I am made of saltwater and glass
and I am a hundred years old.
I breathe in your cigarette smoke
for a minute, you are in my lungs.
Stockpile warmth,
winter is coming to crack our hands.
The light trembles and dissolves
we are now in darkness.
When you left our eyes were still layered with sleep.
My fingertips still hum from the realization
that we are made less of flesh
and more of electricity.