“I am wretched. Destitute.”

“I am wretched. Destitute.”

“I am wretched. Destitute.”

“For us, everything was a performance.” A small, private smile catches me off guard and I glance down, hoping he won’t see it. “Everything poetic.”

“For someone who loved words as much as I did, it was amazing how often they failed me.”

“One thing I'm sure Colborne will never understand is that I need language to live, like food—lexemes and morphemes and morsels of meaning nourish me with the knowledge that, yes, there is a word for this. Someone else has felt this before.”