You said we were friends. No, maybe soulmates. Maybe the white patches of sunlight in harsh mountain crags. Maybe the double cough of a sick child. You said we might be the twin shadow of a two-star system. A planetary duo. A tennis court with the net removed. If I text you right now, would your phone be locked in some cupboard or caught amongst some weeds in the depths of the ocean? Would the phone ping or vibrate? Would the ripples mimic the flares of radiation from our planetary system? Or would it pierce the octopi like a tennis ball through the air? Maybe the text would be a balm to soothe a particularly bad fit. It might sew the cracks of an ailing lung, heat up and thaw the hardened tissue. Would the cupboard implode? Would the ocean dry up? And while I hover my finger over my screen, do you cake into a semblance of yourself? Do you trust your new body? In my mind’s eye you are smoking in the corner of some room, and you breathe. You breathe, and your horribly scarred cilia breathe back. You talk quickly, your words a whipping racket. In my mind’s eye I blink you away. We go our separate ways. The twin planets do not collide and instead grieve, link to different suns. You laugh; you steal some of the guys I like. And in the meantime, my finger hovers over my screen. There’s a tension, a taut tissue. A lung. A dead lung reviving. You have been gone for months. My lung grows back.