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Romeo can’t quite tell if the puppet’s skin is as smooth as Carlo’s. If his hair is as soft.
Their exploration is clinical, almost: allowing themselves to feel each other, but never too much. Fingers threading through hair; thumbs brushing across lips; eyes staring, always staring.
It’s a lull in the tremor of their fight, delayed mere minutes.
Romeo knelt, whispering: Come on. Before I can’t hold back anymore. Come on.
The puppet approached.
Like Carlo, he tells himself now. Curious and a little too trusting, maybe. Wanting to see the good in people.
Craving an understanding that will never happen.
But Romeo still tries. He talks softly, his voice a monotone buzz, as he speaks of gentler times: when they first held hands, what feels like a lifetime ago. The nightmares Carlo would have, crawling into Romeo’s bed at the Rose Estate; shivering like a leaf.
His words are meaningless, brushed aside and misunderstood, but it’s the soft tone that seems to ease the puppet’s wariness.
Romeo wants to ask: Is this really you?
He longs to weep: Because this isn’t really me.
The dry, wiry hair. Ashen skin, flaking away. It’s no wonder he isn’t remembered.
Romeo is a monster.
“I’m sorry,” he says, as the puppet presses a finger to his lips. Not to shush him — does he understand the motion? — but because their hands are upon each other’s face.
Feeling. Memorizing.
Brassy metal and artificial skin.
If Romeo were alive — in essence, he considers this a sort of purgatory — he imagines his lungs would be full of smoke. Devoid of breath.
It’s too much. That face. This loss. The gentle patting, exploring, as if they are strangers.
“I love you,” says Romeo. Defeated before their fight has even truly begun.
Not his final words, but close.