Life fades and then comes back to me.
Watching from the passenger seat of a car, this window is my only one, and I see him on the outside.
Hart, walking with his head down, a grown man inside his mama, head flexed, knees pulled up to his chest as he rests on a nearby bench. Hart is floating, belly bloated with fluid, eyes drowning as they spot me.
The car is parked. We stare at eachother. Suddenly his mouth begins to move and, garbling, it comes together in language that I understand. Hart speaks to me like a fish. I pull my ear closer, lean my head out the window.
"I'm here," he says. then
"Look", and I do.
Around him there are others, fetuses with eyes that stare straight ahead. Hands clutched to their chests, golden chains attached to smooth, hairless bodies. Chains that reach to the sky, where some nameless being feeds them, allows them to move through this water.
I nod through the window and his eyes open wider. Hart is afraid of the dark.
I see you, I tell him and don't know what else to say.
Suddenly the car pulls away and I am in a time machine, seeing what I know is past but have never witnessed before. There are beings here too, children who have never seen light, and men who have never been children.
They float through tunnels, looking for their own golden chain, afraid to blink because they might disappear.
Hart, even with one phantom hand across your face, you are exquisite
God knows where you are hiding.