His mouth is a door.
“Where do you want to go?” he whispers. A tongue, short and pink, slips out and hangs over a generous lower lip. Eel slick. A leafy gutter after a late October rainstorm. Far away, a planet annihilates into its sun.
“To them,” she replies, and reaches with a tentative hand.
The door widens to accommodate. Skin splits, then knits. New teeth sprout from elongating gums. Enamel amaryllises.
Hand, wrist, forearm. The door makes room. It did for me. I was the first to try. And succeed.
“How far until…” she asks, only to hush. Right then, she can feel it. I can tell.
Five fingers finesse frigid, fleshy folds. Folds finesse back.