we may appear mindless, but we aren’t. the rusty cogs of cogency still spin, just geared down and down till the outer motion is barely visible. we grunt and groan, we shrug and nod, and sometimes a few words slip out. it’s not that different from before.

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but it does make me sad that we’ve forgotten our names. out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. i miss my own and i mourn for everyone else’s, because i’d like to love them, but i don’t know who they are.

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there is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. a gap so wide my feelings can’t cross it. by the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.

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in my mind i am eloquent; i can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. but when i open my mouth, everything collapses.

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i grab my stomach again. "feel empty. feel . . . dead."

he nods. "marr . . . iage."

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i crush her against me. i want to be part of her. not just inside her but all around her. i want our ribcages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. i want our cells to braid together like living thread

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stop.

who are you? let the memories dissolve. your eyes are crusted – blink them. gasp in a ragged breath. you’re you again. you’re no one. welcome back.

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"you’ve never done this before, have you? taken a human home alive?"

i shake my head apologetically, but i wince at her use of the word ‘human’. i’ve never liked that differentiation. she is living and i’m dead, but i’d like to believe we’re both human. call me an idealist.

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i feel the flatline of my existence disrupting, forming heartbeat hills and valleys.

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are my words ever actually audible, or do they just echo in my head while people stare at me, waiting? i want to change my punctuation. i long for exclamation marks, but i’m drowning in ellipses.

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in my palm i can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absence of mine.

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"you should always be taking pictures, if not with a camera then with your mind. memories you capture on purpose are always more vivid than the ones you pick up by accident."

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i can see every muscle and vertebra, and since she’s already half naked i imagine her without skin. i know from grim experience that there is a beauty to her inner layers, too. marvels of symmetry and craftsmanship sealed away inside her like the jewelled movements of a timepiece, fine works of art never meant to be seen.

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"there’s no benchmark for how life’s supposed to happen. there is no ideal world for you to wait around for. the world is always just what it is now, and it’s up to you how you respond to it."

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i don’t deserve them. her warm memories. i’d like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything i paint seems to peel.

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how nice if i could edit my own life. if i could halt in the middle of a sentence and put it all to rest in a drawer somewhere, consummate my amnesia and forget all the things that have happened, are happening, and are about to happen. shut my eyes and go to sleep happy.

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we’re fumbling in the dark, but at least we’re in motion.