You speak in a twisted tongue,
Reeking of lost patience and effortlessly ‘won’ arguments
Your words form themselves,
Plump and juicy, ripening
with the comfort of knowing you are
ever the outsider,
straining my foolish little eyes
to trace the curvature of your practiced tongue,
so accustomed it, to being seen.
But the contours, the contortions
drown any meaning that I was meant to mop up from my careful inspection.
Forgive me for greeting your carefully moderated cadence with crass confusion.
I know not what it may connote;
I am constricted by my misplaced curiosity.
The words flowing out from the depths of your painted smile
string themselves a success story,
a house with a picket fence,
three children, and a dog.
They waltz across the starlit room
Spinning in graceful circles
‘round and round
my flaccid, faulty tongue
as it trips over itself, toddler-like.
But they don’t make it to my unhearing ears.
I have a nose and you do too;
Hair, eyes, mouth- I check them off one-by-one on my fingers
We are not really that different.
This wall of silence
between you and I,
Where all your beautiful words make a mockery of my muteness,
Makes all the difference.