But now, inside this ribcage—this dusty apartment where my heart used to live—something is scratching at the floorboards. It wants out. It wants to spell.
I see her sleeping on the floor of the 747. The broken windows frame a moon that looks almost fake, like a prop left over from the old world. Her hand is open. I touch her palm with one finger. Not to eat. To feel. warm bodies mtrjm kaml
We are the same wrong thing, finally correct. But now, inside this ribcage—this dusty apartment where
I don’t know what it means. Maybe it was a song once. Maybe it was a name. The syllables land in my chest like coins in a dry fountain. Mtrjm. A translator. Kaml. Whole. Complete. I see her sleeping on the floor of the 747
I don’t have the muscles for a full sentence. I have rocks in my throat. But I push one out.
(R places his forehead against hers. No biting. Just pressure. Just a question waiting for an answer. Outside, the Bonies grind their teeth in the dark. But inside the plane, time stutters. A piano chord that was silent for years suddenly plays itself once, then stops.)