her lips are a smokey color—the type of chapped things with paled, cracked edges and words hanging off, clothed by the least incessant whines and the most liberating cries. they're somewhat extended and exemplified through the cigarette in her mouth—a thin figure with filtered lips of its own, burning, ashing edges and a paled body. the grayed portions fall off in a dirty, snow rubble on the sidewalk.

"i don't understand," i say.

she sighs. "it's a human thing." her eyes are icy and glint blue above the thick smoke, like a cat's—except it wasn't darkness, it was the exhaust of flame—clouds before morning rain.

"i still don't understand."

"it's liberating," she says, and i can see her eyes on mine. they're extenuating. she is extenuating. "you like books, right?"

i nod.

"well, all i see are all these novels with all these stupid characters who have all these amazing things happen to them," she says, and i finally understand where she's coming from, "i want that." the cigarette is at the edge of her fingers, just touching her cracked, ruby nails. her hands are pale and webbed with veins, an inverted spider web.

"i think everyone wants that," i say.

she shrugs. "not everyone gets that. i'm sick of all those stupid disney movies. i don't want to wait for a prince to come and wake me up. i can do that myself."

"it's liberating," i say.

"it's liberating," she says. she stalks over, and her boots leave dragging prints in the snow. she touches my hands. we're so cold, i can feel her bones in mine, her hips are on mine, her legs are on mine, her chest on mine. i feel something click in my bones.

her jeans are dark and thick, wet from the melting snow, but i still feel her skin in my fingertips. her jacket is thick, but i know what her rib cage feels like, and i know what hearts sound like. her lashes are close enough to touch my eyes, but they grace my forehead, and i suddenly feel like someone.