Our bone marrow is the deepest part of us. Inside, inside and inside again. His feeble piping, my steady scaffold.
You can’t numb this one. Can’t carry it away. It blisters. Fills with pockets of air, like lungs. The meds can only take you so far.
And then? Bone marrow is as close to the centre as you can go. I bury myself there. I’ve been there, all this time. You know how, when
you touch someone you love, it’s different? Suddenly it becomes the centre of the earth. That finger. That patch of skin. Everything
else a dull roar, everything else a white wall. There’s a moment, when you touch someone’s skin from the outside, where you might
will your touch to carry on down inside, so that they can feel it almost to the soul. Transcending touch altogether. Pressing against
something more. Or, if you looked at someone you loved deeply, you might simply say that you loved the very bones of them. And then further still.