we are the very last
to understand
a dying language,
a vernacular shared only
by the space between us

I hold out my hand and
wait
for a sound
to spill out from my fingertips,
like an unhinged jaw
yearning to speak –
a tangible silence swallowing the words
I do not remember how to say

the first light of the morning
pervades the air around us;
it begs me to speak –
and still, nothing

nothing:
a noiseless surrender;
I give myself to the air surrounding me
and pray you might find a way
to translate my breathing

in this room,
in this early morning light,
I am losing myself
in translation
and we are losing touch
altogether

we are holding out our hands and waiting,
like an unhinged jaw
trying to speak a lost language;
it is evident that this is a silence
that refuses to be
broken