The smoke leaves my lips as I blow it up to the ceiling, I’m heavy. I wonder what it would be like to be the smoke, rising and falling away from itself; weightless it can see its insides… and it floats. I could stay up there and look down at everyone at the dinner table.
They couldn’t see me – wouldn’t see my face as I become lost in my own thoughts. They wouldn’t feel sorry that I didn’t understand, thinking that my thoughtful face means that I’m sad, which I’m not, I’m just thinking of being smoke.