We moved from the edges of our stony room and took off our shirts. We poked tree branches through them and propped them on top of the stone walls and they waved down at us like flags. The sun switched places with the moon and the skin on your back became a pale shade of blue. We lay down and I began pulling out the centimeter-long hairs that were growing on your shoulders. You said, “Bits of me are circulating through the atmosphere right now but I am still right here with you.” I said, “Yes, for now,” and we said together, “Ha ha ha ha ha.” You pressed your thumb into my belly button and the fish that lives in my stomach began to flop around against the pressure. You stuck your tongue out and tasted my belly button and said it was weird that I didn’t taste like fish. I said, “That is weird, thank you.”