A colourless, odourless gas, a drifting, a numbing as with snow but without the cold, an easeful death. Half in love with it. No, not that, not love, but what's left of it, the traces. As from red wine, the tannins.

        You wake in the middle of the night, the bed a carousel, the first alert alarm sounding. You go to the window, but it is sealed shut, the ice of November, December and January. You try another window and another. You get out the WD-40 but you can only spray the inside of the frame. Now you have the chemical smell, the oily film on your fingers, but no fresh air. You go to the front door and breathe briefly through the mail slot. The night air a missive, the night air an unsolicited letter from him, a postcard from some exotic place on the other side of the world where you've never been. You'll never be. Be again with him.

        Your lungs test the air, a polar bath. A bathos. You step back, secure the slot. Let nothing from him ever push its way through to you again. You go back upstairs because you are tired of interruptions and no other form of sleep could be long or satisfying enough.

- Invitation to death by carbon monoxide poisoning by Mary di Michele

( thank you to Books vs. cigarettes )