My throat closed months ago.
I tried to keep breathing with all I was not saying,
but breath--like expression--needs room.
There was no room,
just a corpse with bones clacking through the motions,
making a mockery of some birth between us long ago when
mountain air moved us, speech freed us, and the possibilities
for every condition felt passionate and promising.
Negotiations dissipated, died slowly with a few screams and heavy sighs.
The rituals lost their potency without asking permission.
There is an obituary somewhere waiting to be written. Maybe this is it.
When two people spend enough time together
a language develops that can become
a portal to freedom
or cage of restriction.
Possibilities come to life or die by way of ritual idioms.
Whoever determines what can and cannot be said
in love and in war and in the space between,
determines the conditions for life itself.
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