We are the same wrong thing, finally correct.
I don’t know what it means. Maybe it was a song once. Maybe it was a name. The syllables land in my chest like coins in a dry fountain. Mtrjm. A translator. Kaml. Whole. Complete. warm bodies mtrjm kaml
I see her sleeping on the floor of the 747. The broken windows frame a moon that looks almost fake, like a prop left over from the old world. Her hand is open. I touch her palm with one finger. Not to eat. To feel. We are the same wrong thing, finally correct
But moans are just words that forgot their shape. We are the same wrong thing
I am the translator. She is the completeness.