One Cold Breath and Then Another

When he decided to follow her, he gave up
everything else he was doing. He followed her
like a red balloon through Paris, or like a
young man aping an older time follows a jam band.
She was everything, then, in a way that nothing
had been everything for quite some time. He knew
he’d have to stop. He knew this counted as stalking.
He knew he’d never forget the moon rising over her
house, her arms in the window, one cold breath and
then another, everything in him igniting at once.

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