I said I wanted to speak everything,
Fluent in every language of the world.
But I forgot that love and heartbreak can be conjugated and translated.
The basics were mastered long ago,
Colorful colloquialisms came later
When new information was available,
After years of practice and exposure.
I cannot deny the fun I had wrapping my tongue around the syllables,
Later sentences, sometimes just familiar phrases.
The calligraphy of your veins, your scars, and the curve of your body could only be read by a few,
And I was one of the chosen who picked the cuneiform up with ease, and studied meticulously.
But you are the dictionary,
Constantly redefining the language and what it means.
You are the thesaurus, finding new syllables for me to associate with the space where you used to be.
It would seem there are countless territories where this is the native language;
I stumble into them by accident all the time.
Except the dialects vary, so I can never seem to say what I really mean,
Not with any precision anyways.
I will gladly cede my expertise to the next wave of experts that you create.
Perhaps you’ll inspire a topographer who can better diagram the cities built just to house this fluid language.
The places and ruins where people hoped to keep it, to stop it from slipping onto the tongues of others.
Some were more, some less, but all deserving according to the founder of this awkward prose.
I wished you’d loved and devastated a psychic before me.
I would befriend her and make her anticipate how long this venture would last,
Tell me when time would eventually erode my efficiency with these words.
Maybe though, one day,
Someone will manage to master every word, inflection, and cadence of your elocution.
They will write you down in the pages of dead languages among Aramaic, Coptic, and Latin.
Centuries later people will find it, and spend hours trying to understand it.
But no Rosetta Stone exists for this.
Even if they recognize it, they will never truly understand it.
Evolutions of this language will echo forever,
There will be vague memories of it told across the generations, and the naïve will always think it a fairy tale, a sign of senility for the jaded and worn.
Until it’s them, and they think they found the new Dead Sea Scrolls.
Though us weary bilinguals know that everyone thinks they are the first.
Everyone speaks it eventually.