Cannot see each other's faces only however so little apart. Together in the disappearing light. Disappearing suddenly. Where did it go? Trying to see his hands. Moving them and clumsily striking her. Where did he contact her? Accidentally.
She: It's OK. I'm OK.
He: No it's not.
She: Are you saying I'm not OK?
He: No. I mean you are. It's not OK to hurt you.
She: I'm not hurt.
He: Tag. You're it.
She: I guess I am.
They stand in silence. Or maybe they lie. Will they drift off to sleep or fill the shrinking space with rushing to give their dark formlessness contours?
He: I think I see your eyes. I know they're blue, but I'm trying to convince myself I see blue.
She: Don't hurt yourself to be convinced.
He: Want it just to be . . .
There. Before him and within to express nothing more for than what is when it is submerged in the dark.
He: Trying to find . . .
She feels his cautious and searching hand caressing her toes and deflected by toenails. Pressure is noticed on her cast of his palm. She waits for him to attempt another extremity, but is surprised to become aware of his finger wiggling its way into a hole in the plaster.
She: Found the hole.
He: Where is skin?
His exploring digit taps against more material underneath. A plaster cast within a plaster cast.
- Max Stoltenberg