You know how the air gets when summertime’s close? Like frangipani and the ocean. He smells how the air feels right before the storm. He smells like freedom, and I don’t mean to, but I breathe him in. And once I feel him inside my chest, there’s this peculiar sinking—it’s rather distinct—that the feeling of him being there might not ever quite leave. Do you ever get a feeling like that? A foreboding? A grave permanence to whatever’s about to come next? That’s how breathing Peter Pan in feels. Like taking the first step on a carpet rolled out in front of you.
