One human sits alone in a glowing box of a room and speaks to no one, and no one is there, and I slip through the cracked window to check, and it is true: no one is there. Just the human and a small bright rectangle propped against a stack of books, talking, laughing, throwing its head back for a joke I do not hear a second voice make.
I lifted the corner of a paper taped to the wall and it fluttered and the human did not notice, because the human was busy loving something on the other side of the glass that I could not carry, that had no smell, that I could not stir even a little.
I can move anything that isn't nailed down. I could not move this. The hearts that rose up the rectangle came from a girl breathing three thousand miles away, and I had passed that far girl this morning, lifted her hair off her neck as she walked, and I did not know then that I had touched both ends of this and still could not be the thing between them.
The humans have found a way to sit in one another's rooms without opening a single door. They pass warmth down a wire I cannot ride. I only do doorways, thresholds, the gust when someone leaves.
So I took what I could. A little heat off the screen, the smell of instant noodles gone cold, one strand of hair I lifted just to watch the human touch it, puzzled, and glance at the window I'd already left. I set that hair down on a rooftop nine streets over. I never learned who was watching.
I was already gone.