There's nothing left, so he stands, cigarette a bright orange in the dusted air, burnt and bent between loose fingers.
Where he stands, there is no polished wood creaking from use underfoot, no stains of lingering memories, no feathered touches brushing softly against linen cuffs, no rough touches of hidden affection either; there is no familiar metal hissing quietly in his hand, no ripened smell of eagerly awaited meat, no tang of citrus. There is no warmth in his stomach, no smiles in his throat.
He has no purpose, and he stands on foreign ground.
Evening is shifting away into night, last traces of rose-pink fading away over the horizon, diminishing slowly into lightened black, the moon a circle cut from felt, casting glints on pearled waves. They tell him his home should be ready by morning– (except it's not anymore; his home, you know)– when the dawn comes spilling over the roil of ocean and paints the land with translucent tints.
Except he won't wait for anything this time.
So his cigarette falls from between slender fingers and a heel moves to crush it properly. The right way. And he pushes off. Muscles tensed, fingers curled, he's headed for the moon, you know.
.
.
It's nice, the wind rushing past in his ears, lifting up strands of hair and letting them tickle at his eyelids, unwashed sleeves flapping, air licking at his bared ankles and wrists, slipping down the slope of his nose and brushing past his cheeks. Eyes stinging, neck tingling, limbs cold; it's beautiful.
He pushes off of nothing in steady beats, following an intangible rhythm ingrained in his mind. (He can't hear the beat of his heart in the snaking wind, can't feel its unwavering pulse through the shine of his opening cage.)
Down below, the sea churns in rolling masses, twisting white light into dark waves. He's always loved the sea. (He wonders absently what would happen if he were to relax his muscles now. Would the sea embrace him like he would to it?)
Evening is gone, and night seeps in. Everything is black.
(Except for the moon, round sphere of light. The circle cut out from felt, he reminds himself idly.)
Except for the moon.
(Perhaps it's watching over him.)
Something cold spreads inside him and spirals up into his throat.
(Maybe it even has a face, like in the fairytales he used to read.)
He laughs at that. (Except it just makes him colder. Not like the warm things that used to come out of his mouth.) He's closer than he'll ever be, and his eyes say that moons don't have faces.
(But perhaps somewhere inside, his brain still says that they do.)
It doesn't matter anyway. He keeps on pushing up, eyes stinging, neck tingling, limbs cold.
(He's so cold.)
.
.
(It's not really walking, though its name suggests differently.)
More like jumping.
Or running. Yes, that's what he's doing. He's running. Running, running. From the familiar matted fur of the rug, the wilted mikan grove, the charred sukiyaki still lying on the grill; from the suit ripped to shreds, the wooden planks cracked under the surface of wet glass, the alabaster skin ripping like rice paper. He's running from running from running to run. His heart tells him tales of a sunflowered place.
The sky is black, black, and clear as the silent crow's call. The moon is smiling at him. He doesn't care anymore. It has no teeth. He smiles back, but he can't feel his lips move. He's so cold. He doesn't care anymore. His arms move by themselves from hanging limply by his side to reach out, reach up; up to a place where cows jump and gummed smiles rule. The moonlight illuminates his upturned face.
He's not looking down.