On Saturday Sound and Vision filled the car so that when I breathed it was like the rush of smoke filling my lungs and I could see each and every string of spider web drawn between us, my nose strung to his nose, my eyes strung to his eyes, and I knew that if we both parted our lips each of our teeth would have their own threads stretching across the empty space, blossoming in the place where touch had been lost. and just for a moment it brought me to when we were in his bed and he was inside me and I pulled back to look at his face and found his lip curled and eyes closed and I tenderly laid out each of his expressions like masks next to each other in my mind and I felt so lucky to have collected so many of them. And now. When I imagine kissing him I’m not sure if it’s him or not because I haven’t kissed him in so long. I hold on to the memory of touch— last time we lay together and I drew my fingers across his stomach, a warm drum, or when I held my lips against his long enough to defy what a kiss is supposed to be. What does he hold onto? Has he dreamt of me since? And now he tilts his chin down and grins at me in complete jubilation, a glitch in his mission to build something so immense and powerful that his grief can live inside of it instead of his own body.