Tongues

One morning we woke up,

rolled over to greet each other

and the day, and the words

that left your mouth

were nothing more

than a series of syllables

I could neither interpret

nor understand. At first

I thought it was

one of my fucked up dreams

and I tried to talk back

thinking, maybe,

once I opened my mouth

those same sounds

would fall from my lips

and I would be granted --

the way fire falls on an apostle--

the ability to understand.

But you looked at me

first confused, then annoyed

like the way you do

when you think

I'm being an ass

or playing some joke

no one but me will

ever get. We roll out of bed,

go through the ablutions

and rituals of our morning:

coffee brewing, finding clothes

feeding the cats. You

are stressed and I am

waiting on caffeine

that (I hope) will lend clarity.

You walked out the door,

muttering in your muted dialect

after blowing a kiss at me

and lighting your second cigarette

of the day. The scent of them

still gets me; and I am reminded

of late nights when we would

sit up and talk because
each moment meant something sacred,

because our tongues were
something sacred, and we somehow felt
like it would never come again

and how the scent of you

and the taste of you
would linger when I would have to
sneak out of your dorm room

early in the morning

to escape detection.