It’s a small language in a big universe, spoken only by two. We invented these words. We gave them meaning. Our tongues became fluent unwittingly. The linguists and archaeologists all agreed that our dialect was ancient. Nanoscopic. All two of its native speakers have been carbon dated. They prodded at the excavation site, at our fossilized alphabet. They studied our once intertwined bones in labs and lecture halls. They asked themselves the question: how does a language die? They answered: when no one’s left speaking it.
It’s a small language in a big universe, spoken only by one. As the sole survivor, I tried to teach the world our otherworldly lingo. They’ll never know about the spaces in between the letters. About the spaces in between the spaces. About the shape your heartprint made next to mine. About how no other brain arranged syllables in the same manner as you. About how no other brain ever will. About the trill of our dueting laughter. About the silence of a Harold Lloyd film. How does a language die? Once upon a time, I swore I would immortalize these texts. I went out kicking and screaming, snapped my ribcage in half to make room for the mutating thing in my chest.
How does a language die? Slowly but surely. Mouths are scheduled to decay and they intend on taking their kisses with them. How does a language die? As a neon blip on a dark radar, a fleeting thing of beauty. How does a language die? In the fashion of an upside-down bouquet, of brittle petals pressed between pages for preservation. How does a language die? On a fucking Tuesday. How does a language die? With its throat pulped in between your white-knuckled hands, the sputtering of its final gasps rhythmic with its myoclonic twitches. How does a language die? Lonely in the throng, grief lost in translation. How does a language die? In its frilly Sunday best, the last pair of knees glued to the last church pew, the last ears to hear the last hymns, the last time you said I love you.
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