my language is the common one. the kind that gets you extra cream in your coffee, or your oil checked. it is the twenty-six letters assembled together that form these modes of expression that i use to make my professors happy, and my temperament said.
your language is the one i admire though. theres a middle man. or woman (instruments have curves). and i know that to play them is to touch your first love. i'm content with the status of mistress, if only to your wooden woman. but like you, i can't get content.
something about thumbs slapping strings to make the soul sing. mine hears it too, and wades through the nonsense of syntax and verb tense like a fog that cuts and clears away. i hear you and it's honest. i hear you. it vibrates my ribs and pulls tight my tendons, aching like a square peg looking down the round tunnel of admiration.
sure, i can jam. but you won't hear me. you'll hear the notes i could shake out of my cold metal valves at the last second. you'll hear the nonsense of noise. you wouldn't know of my soul unless i told you. i need to happen in verbal conversation.
so to my unfortunate unlovers: i love you. polylingual proprietors of my heart, i'm sorry you can't get me. and i'm more sorry than you that soaring free my heart can't be, without a-b-g-d-c. which may or may not be a major key to release a real ease, so i don't wear out what out i sneeze on my sleeve.
love, s-l-c
