You write with so much
body horror,
I guess.

Mhm. Yeah,
I kinda do.
Just realized.

You said here
about all these thorns
roses
blood
(I hope type o is your love language too)
and I find it strange.

Oh?
It’s not to me.

Well,
I’m not you.
I spoke about you fading
away
remember?

Yeah.
You made me cry,
and I mean that without ill intent.

I also mean this without ill intent.
But why why why why why.

I think
I am bound to everything
By Blood.
And my body.

“Oh?”
Stab the pin in your heart, huh?

Ha.
Well,

I stay rooted
in my chair
because my nerves are weighing
my thighs down
and I sweat and cry and spit
because if I can’t leak my thoughts
then I’ll have to leak something physical.

Right.

My body is my map
(I’ve told you this before
and it’s still the truth)
and it’s the only thing
that will be with me forever.

What about me?
Aren’t I eternal too?

Like how in
(x-5)(x)=0,
where either (x-5) has to be 0
or (x) has to be zero,
I will die before you
or you will die before me.
I don’t know yet.
(I don’t want to.)

I Grab Your Hand
While Your Other Hand
Lifts The Peppercorn
To Your Lips.

You Pause In Your Movements.

“You can see me?”

“Mm,” I hum, because I don’t really know what else to say; in this room, with the balcony and patio, I am drowning in tides of nostalgia. You have been here enough to not be physically floored by the feeling, but I know you long for white lace tablecloths as much as I do.

Your face contorts, bewildered. “You’re…” You don’t finish your sentence.

I’ve never seen you at a loss for words. Sometimes I see you stumble over them, like how you did before you embraced this language so intimately and voluntarily, but never have I seen you so overcome with thoughts and emotions that you start to say something but stop.

“I’m here,” I say, not really a reassurance despite what the phrase typically is used for. I’m just stating facts at this point.

You swallow; not a peppercorn, but perhaps your own feelings. Or perhaps you are so used to being here and eating and watching us fade away that you swallow in even intervals through pure instinct. I’m not sure.

“Darn,” I say, and watch as my father starts to grow transparent. “It really is kinda wild, huh?”

“Yeah.”

My father disappears.

“What in the hell,” I whisper. “Didn’t know it looked that weird. He just poofed out of existence.”

“Yeah.”

A little pause. There’s the sound of forks dragging across plates. Shuffles when people move.

“Oh god,” I say, looking at my mother, who’s happily eating her meal.

Mother’s fading too. “Mom’s going too.”

“That’s typically how it goes.”

“There’s an order?”

“Yeah.”

My mother laughs. Her smile is bright; sometimes when she tries to convince customer service to do something for her it’s obviously fake, and I always see through it because of her eyes, there’s a brightness in them when she’s really happy—

but the sound fades. And she’s gone.

“…You’re next.”

I blink. “I am?”

You scoff. “Well, by process of elimination, and for some reason you seem to know very well how people fade in this place or whatever, you know that I don’t fade, so yes, you’re next.”

Ah. You have your words back. And you’ve chosen to speak, speak a lot. I like it when you talk a lot— there’s something captivating about it. I can understand it, and understand what you want to say sometimes even if it’s just one syllable, and that happens with no one else.

I smile.

You stare at me. You stare down at your arm, where I am clutching at your elbow.

“You’re fading,” you whisper. “You’re…”

I look down at my nails, smile fading— or, dimming. My skin is losing its color. It’s like glass— you could shatter me, I think. You could.

“I’m here,” I say. “I’m here.”

“Sure,” my brother says. “Keep saying that when you’re gone in… ten seconds.”

“I’ll still be here,” I say, mock-offended. “I’ll always be here.”

“No you won’t. You’re literally fading.”

“But you’ll remember this one, right?”

You don’t speak.

“People remember anomalies more than the constants. I’ll be here.”

And then I’m gone.