Lips part. That's what he wants to see, so he takes in a little hitched breath that curls cold and useless in his lungs left derelict.
Lips part, he takes one hand up and presses his thumb to the full roughness of them so it dents into their pink flush, warps. When that mouth splits into the roundness and wet break of speech, he feels the vibrations exchanged between clean jaw bone and his clutching fingers, like a phone call he got once, a very long time ago.
Are you there?
The words, he's made out of them now as they reverberate in his hand, spoken in a voice like a three-day-long stride.
He sees absolutely into the eyes of his God.
Lips part, and he never had to say a damn thing.