“What did you say?” she whispers.
But moans are just words that forgot their shape.
We are the same wrong thing, finally correct.
I am the translator. She is the completeness.
But now, inside this ribcage—this dusty apartment where my heart used to live—something is scratching at the floorboards. It wants out. It wants to spell.
I don’t know which is right. Language is a living thing, and I have been dead for so long. Dead things don’t speak. They only moan.
Before her, my vocabulary was small. Hungry. Cold. Grr. Argh. Lights out.
“Trans… late… com… plete.”
Blocked Drains Rotherham