“Trans… late… com… plete.”
End.
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. warm bodies mtrjm kaml
But moans are just words that forgot their shape. “Trans… late… com… plete
We are the same wrong thing, finally correct. warm bodies mtrjm kaml
I whisper it against her skin. My lips are cracked. My voice is a rusty hinge. But the sound… it doesn't die. It hangs in the cold air like breath. Like proof.
She blinks. Then, impossibly, she smiles. “You’re trying to say I translate the whole. Or maybe… you make me whole. ”