Latin is a dead language
Like the one we managed to create

Every “I love you” is empty.
Like decorated vases with metallic soldiers painted on them
The ones that can’t really hold anything because then they’ll break
(But why do your “I love you’s” fill the void in my heart?)

Every embrace feels cold.
Like old bronze on sharp spears with thick rust and dried blood
The ones that used to be able to kill a man with a single stab
(But why do I feel warm inside whenever you hug me?)

Every “goodbye” seems hard
Like calluses on workers developed from working with heavy tools
The ones that ruin skin and make holding hands feel awkward
(But why is it so hard to let go when you need to leave?)

Every smile looks fake
Like that entire story about the Trojan War and the tragic hero
The one that historians sometimes think is real
(But why is it that your grin validates me?)

The language we created is dead, like Latin
(But how come Latin is still being taught?)