Follow Through

Finally, we die. Our hearts stop simultaneously, like a refrigerator switching off. The room is silent and still until the saws go to work again. We lift and look down at what exactly they have been doing to us. They are separating us from ourselves. As they are loosed, pieces are set into a bin, roughly the size of a dumpster. Is it a dumpster? you ask. It’s surprising to hear your voice. What’s happened? I ask. Can you see their faces? Do you see skin? you ask, and my answer is no, but instead I say It’s surprising to hear your voice. I’ve missed your voice, so I start crying and it is not helpful to either of us. You go to pat my back but your hand drifts through me. Oh you say we’re like classically ghosts.

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