X. A poet vanished. One week. Then two. A painter haunted their spot alone, the roar now just noise, the rocks wrong under their hands. A painter brought their paints but couldn’t paint. The place had lost its language.
XI. Then one day: a poet was there, already writing. They didn’t look up, just slid the folded paper towards a painter:
things that stay infinite: the sky before anyone called it blue bread rising in the dark the butterfly’s time without a name for waiting us, before you ask what we are
things that shrink when named: the feeling of flight after you say “bird” the ocean after you say “water” love after you call it love
I need you to be hungry with me for things that have no words let this be enough for you it is everything to me
XII. A painter read it three times, each time understanding differently. They pulled out their sketchpad, drew them both: a poet’s nose too sharp, a painter’s ears too large, their funhouse selves sitting on the rocks with a picnic basket between them, checkered blanket and all.
At the bottom, where the title would go, just empty space.