Sometimes I feel like I’m speaking a different language
One that is connected to my heart
And not to the world around me
I swallow, feel my tongue where it runs down the back of my throat
It doesn’t stop there
Fastened down hard like other tongues
Instead it unravels like a rope into the depths of my soul
I swallow
And try to keep the words from falling quite so squarely, truthfully
I trap them, spin them into something more normal
Before they give me away and mark me not ordinary
“Nice weather we are having” I toss
Yes, well received as what nots usually are
It will do for now
Some words are just for saying any old how
Others are like the special lounge in my grandmothers house
Rarely used and only on special occasions
Dark and plush and deep
Rarely do those words ever leap blithely
They don’t get bounced around on like everyday furniture
“Morning” I nod with a pleasant smile
I’m witholding
Speaking pleasantries instead
Pleasant
A nice word
Lovely
Another
And I smell moth balls and furniture polish and remember
The very best cutlery is reserved for special occasions
