I now see that you have become fluent
in a language I cannot communicate in.
Though I pause and murmur and laugh,
all these signs and symbols
are jarringly out of tune,
reeking of a foreign, clumsy tongue.
I am unversed in you now,
and it was not always so.
We are perched on the edge of our seats
within a dim room, reverberating with rhythm.
Waiters bustle frantically by,
whirling our words into the shadows
where they feebly sink,
weighted down as soon as they are spoken.
When the blonde child at the adjacent table,
wiggling impatiently, abruptly turns,
wide-eyed with a clairvoyant honesty,
what can I do but shiver to my very soul?
Honey, drizzled across my fingertips,
cascades lazily into the fragrant tea below.
The blonde girl before me abruptly turns,
brightly smiling and petite —
faerie-like in the sense of her smallness
and the ethereal way she glows and moves.
She should be elsewhere, but she is here.
A cheerful introduction, and then I know:
we speak the same language.