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There is a cloud of smoke, the shape of a man,

That walks the empty halls of our old house.

It is my father, looking for me.

Straining to catch the scent of my lungs

So he can bury himself in the soft, open pores

That hold all of my breath,

And make them as solid as stone.

He has never known, what it means

To have a body, he has never had one

Of his own. Just a mass of old skin

That other people have shed.

Sometimes he tries it on

And pretends to be

A real man.