Is to imagine a motion. When you leave, I can no longer deny my fingers are fine gas lanterns. My moth body chases them, shouts, HURRY! Shouts, HOW SCARY IS IT? If I could reach the porch, we would all be okay. I wouldn’t have to tell you about the bald spots. You wouldn’t have to cover your mouth as I did. This is speculation. Only our cells know what a proper house looks like. It might be like an antler, a glossed ripple of light. I hope it is like the back of your wrist, mosquito-bite pink. I’m alright not knowing for a while if it means finding out.