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expatriation [miraasan]

i walk into the room and sit across from him. words spill from his mouth, but i cannot process the stream. his laughter is a foreign language.

he playfully jokes and seriously explains and all with a careless freedom i have never known in him.

it was he who captured himself as a prisoner of our war. and it was only he who (that?) could hand down those directives for cruel and unusual punishment. we were our own worst enemies.

our tiny nation of two had dissolved, but, in a land without borders, disputes and skirmishes were unavoidable (inescapable?).

then our two private his and hers ~beckistans drifted apart.

and now we're back again. we've defined our cultures by the world around us, instead of just the world between us.

the differences now are clearly delineated.

for what are lines on a map? words in a declaration? their meaning is only clear in the context of the people who drew them up.

but people change.

and there he is. successfully liberated from that hellish camp of heartbreak.

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