Tomb for the words of our scarred love.

I loved him until our throats run dry. Now we must find an empty tomb to bury these shells. Shells of the words whose soul we have used up.

At first, we used words to learn each other. Flirting. We used words to exchange well timed compliments. Small talk. Sometimes simply to comment on the weather. Polite banter. Seductive whispers. We used up all the words.

Then we had to get a room. A room in which to do the things lovers do when left alone. Things that we were both too shy to say out loud. We created our own sign language. We didn't use words, he showed me and I showed him. Our bodies spoke for us.

I do not know at what point our throats opened up again. I cannot remember when the words returned to us. Only that these were alien words. Words whose soul was worn out, rugged. Our words had been warm. They had heated our hearts and inspired late night calls and saucy texts at dawn. Words that taught us to tear away each others clothes like thirsty lovers do. The kind of words that inspire untameable rhythms among lovers. Poetic. Our words were poetry.

Now I stay up late wondering when these alien words came to us. Insolent words. Quarrels and arguments. Where did the whispers said in a silky baritone die? Now the cruelty in his voice, is all I recognize. And the hate and accusations in my voice? How do I quell them? In the place of flirtations and seduction are words that work up storms. Words that clench fists and draw knives. Alien words. Or have we become the aliens?

We are no longer accustomed to mirthful banter. We have used up the soul of all our words. What do lovers say when love has dried up? Who has an empty tomb where the dead words of scarred love must be buried?

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