I am made of the simplest of things.
My outer material is nothing more than the remnants of words.
I am breaking down every word to its last syllable in hopes that I’ll find where my choice of words began.
Language is a virus and we are its carriers.
Like a newborn, I am crying out to be heard, but what am I to say?
Should I say how I really feel?
The heart has its reasons, that reason does not know,
that’s why feelings of aggression are the absence of the love drunk in our veins.
It’s when you don’t say anything that I understand, but when you deny it, that I can’t stand.
I know you, you made me.
Before I was birthed, I was a part of you.
You carried me around like I was your handbag, full of everything that you needed to survive.
Even now, I am still full of you.
You called on me as I was reaching out for you;
somehow we cancelled each other out despite our connection and intentions.
I wanted to hear from you, you know that I did.
You wanted to feel something familiar, I know that you did.
It’s what you couldn’t say aloud that made me move closer.
Your every word is translated through the motions that you make as emotions draw across your face.
Maybe if we were strangers in paradise something might have been lost in translation,
but we’re not and I am reminded of this as our silent conversation carries on.
All the rest is noise.