They will take you apart, piece by piece, like an old car or a carcass. They are deft with the knife. Knowing the joints to crack and break, the nuts where the bolts are loose. Unencumbered by so much their mouth makes a wrecking ball look unprepared for the task at hand. The body has forgotten how to take this. The body set to a new pulse. The body disintegrating in the bed, into the floor, into the earth below. They let the flat of their tongue run across your mouth. They tip you into the soft grip of pain. They know what they are, what they can do. When do words split off from meaning? When do you know you’ve reached the end of the explainable feeling? Where is the edge of this body now it’s touching you? We two ghosts whispering into the mood lighting. We two, tucked into each other’s edges, pockets, pants. Their hand, your throat. Your hand, their hair. Hands and mouths taking a collection for later. The congregation will thank them, us, you, who knows who. The congregation stands and speaks and speaks and sits. The rhythm inescapable. The repetition not as obscure as it seems. Back to the bed. They are astride you. The whole world narrowed down to the point of these sheets—the point of these mouths. Theorists point to a sudden increase in understanding of the meaning of life. At the same moment their hand is pressing against the sounds you make. Everything interspersed with the sweet ring of a laugh set free from the space between their enclosed palms. A type of prayer. Two mouths together, in unison, in concert, in time. I am backwards compatible with all prior selves and I watch this new self come into being. The lamination, the layers, all of it. Incredible attention to detail. Incredible levels of effort. They don’t even know what they’ve done despite all prior assertions. Everything known and unknown held together in the time they slow down on purpose, or not. Did you know it would be like this? Maybe we could have guessed. All of the signs were pointing to yes.