Words once spoken in whispers,
between giggles,
shouted from car windows,
murmured at the ends of telephone conversations,
are losing all meaning.
Watching La Vie en Rose in my black robe,
sipping macchiato with two shakes of cinnamon,
dabbing my wrists with the scent of lavender and honey,
taking the streetcar to the book store in the rain,
speaking with friends who assure me you are well,
I feel like a foreigner in lands that were once home to us.
I am told that you will move to Montreal in June.
I am the only remaining speaker of the language of us,
the language of our love, and I have lost fluency.
I struggle to pronounce the most basic phrases.
"I love you,"
"Kiss me now,"
"I need you here,"
All lost to me, lost to the world,
forgotten from lack of use,
eaten up by the prevalence of a more practical tongue.
Forming my lips into that soft 'O',
required in most romance languages,
is now a bitter impossibility.
My mouth has given up trying.
My lips so rarely move
to make the syllables of your name.
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