If you were to ask me what was at stake, i would have told you

that fevered, Our fever blistered, burst and broke. i would have said that in Our skulls were fogged-glass eggs for eyes whose soft shells swelled and spilled past socket-edge. i would have spoken of the sparks inside, still live, still lithe, abuzz like green beach-glass apartmentflies while We misted, faded out. While round Us machines still moved as programmed: father, hand clasped to hand mimed prayers to blessed San, his Sanagnese and nanny-face, ever helpful, hopefully supplied a ghost of hooked nose and knobby hands to haunt unsleeping and undreamed dreams.

Our last collective thought, this: who else has gone this way? Not Us, never, please. We clutched skin to skin to sweat together, took last onebodied breath.

and then i woke alone, just i, skin still sticky from the grasp of Him and daylight clear in corners as the clearing of my body, mind.

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