She blinks. Then, impossibly, she smiles. “You’re trying to say I translate the whole. Or maybe… you make me whole. ”
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
I point at my chest. Then at hers. Then I make a fist and open it slowly—a flower, a bomb, a heart. She blinks
I whisper it against her skin. My lips are cracked. My voice is a rusty hinge. But the sound… it doesn't die. It hangs in the cold air like breath. Like proof. She blinks. Then