in a dead language - vmon

i.

The first time I tell you survival exhausts me, you kiss me and say, "maybe you were born with one lung so breathing doesn't come as effortlessly to you."

I'm too busy thinking about this kiss to think about how this doesn't make sense, because I do have two lungs. I just can't breathe underwater like you, and what seems to be everyone else around me, can do.

Survival exhausts me because I want to live. I want to live life to the fullest. I don't want to survive.

You don't mind that. You don't want to live because you're waiting to die; you're a flame waiting to burn out, a timed bomb waiting to explode, a moment waiting to pass by.

The first time you tell me you're kinda rebellious, I hold your hand and say, "aren't we all?"

Because we are. In our case, rebelliousness isn't an aspect of our youth, rebelliousness is a trait we've inherited from our fathers and mothers and we'll be passing on to our sons and daughters.

I'm too busy thinking about your hand in mine to think about how this can be a sign: you're not a rebel without a cause, you're a martyr for the cause.

(Your youth martyrs you. The cause is your freedom.)