The soil rots quietly

beneath our battered feet.

In my hands,

a fractured image -

of you,

of me.

There’s something almost _sonder_

about our freedom:

how it slithers up our necks,

slides down our throats,

pleading

to be seen,

to be praised.

Something is missing,

and I dread to know what.

I will walk to death

before I speak

His name

again.