The letters back and forth and in French.
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It is our code. Nobody else speaks it.
They are Italian, Spanish, Greek.
We two are outcast. Always
on the periphery, the odd college major,
the misunderstood, assumed good.
While others got in trouble, we got away.
Our usual rotation, our favorite, the coat room.
In the summer, the nearby field,
how we hid concealed by tall grass.
How you rolled your tongue over and over.
How my body lifted to meet such kisses,
How I undulated beneath you.
Now, you send me letters from the office.
Language need not be elegant,
though yours is, scripted and black.
Mine - pigeon, Cajun.
Our scripted French code-words known only
to us; language formed over the years.
Outside the rain drears my window,
and in the few-second moment
of missive sent, missive received,
all I can think is how empty I feel.
How I need you. Like telephone with
two cans, you tug hard the cord, shoot back:
I die a thousand little deaths.