In an envelope in a box in a closet I keep the old balloons, deflated and sticky, the ones you used to decorate my room. Happy birthday, you surprised me. Filled with your breath, the openings tinged pink with the faintness of your lipstick. There must've been a hundred, and every one of them tinged.
We kissed and we went to dinner and we fought and then you left. I stayed in bed, calling you, keeping on the phone. A slow-motion speed-through and they all lost their air, one by one they fizzled and died as I lost you. And one by one you breathed a hundred breaths and then were gone.
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