My twin feet are learning, in some foreign manner, how to let themselves be heavy with their voice; treading in shoes for carpet on tile, through sock, through halls that they only remember being lit yellow, they whisper to each other. We’re no longer there. We’re no longer there.

Ritualistic, nearly, with their prayers, mouthed into each creak and crevice of the hardwood, kissing and licking down the floor, dragging like something forbidden. A secret. Ours. Little.

My twin feet are learning, in some foreign manner, how to let themselves be loud again with their life; approaching you, the brain is wired to murmur, but all my feet do is stay quiet. Bedridden, sickly, daydreaming or nightdreaming or dreaming: We’re still there.

We’re still there.