A ship pushes its way through the East River, twelve stories below. bird’s eye view, like one-point perspective and  foreshortening. The night before is suspended inside a jar of formaldehyde. Acidic and Rabid. Muzzled. Slabbed. Liquids behind glass. And I am gas— Just then she breaks through the sliding doors. Into her arms… when my nose pushes into her down jacket the cold is released in a puff against my cheek. Eyelids and lips draped over the sweetest expression and she drapes a white blanket around my shoulders. She pulls out a new pack of colored pencils and paper. When I spill the pencils out into my palm I feel their points bounce like little colored knives. When I begin to draw her outline I see her smile and I think: this makes her happy. She draws some flowers and some dogs, floating like stars on the empty page. She is filling in an orange petal. The lines are an extension of herself. I watch. As she draws I am real.