The Weight of Unowned Hands

The nave smells of pine needles and wet marble. Pillars here are saplings, green enamel, reaching up through the vaulted ceiling. The floor is loam, soft underfoot, but the shadows cast by the arsechnives remain stark, hard tile. A film projector stands deep between the columns, its light cone hitting the moss, the reels spinning air. My hand rests on the stone balustrade; it has the weight of your hand, the specific bone density I remember. The ache starts in the hollow of my chest, a dull, steady burn that belongs to someone watching the green light play over the roots. I lift my wrist. The air tastes cold near the brass fittings of the altar. A bird, a small, brown thing, nests in the wiring above the confession booth, and it shifts, sending dust falling across the projector's lens.