I guess I just like words

I think English words taste like pickles: crunchy on the outside with savory, meaty middles.

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Spanish is like a Frank Lloyd Wright stained glass window, its colorful geometry sliding into place like the children’s game Rush Hour.

Speaking Arabic is like putting on gilded silk robes that I don’t deserve.

Hebrew diffuses through my veins, and Yiddish sends me spiralling into my ancestors.

When I sat in French class, I was able to peer into a manicured francophone antique store that enthralls me.

And when I preach my dreams of universal Esperanto, I feel the international interdependency of the future colliding with the frilly beauty of antiquity. 

I was barely twelve when I sat on a train pouring words onto a page, words that sounded right, that fit right, that like singing nails resonated in my chest.

I was a silversmith working self-righteous metal into ornate rings around fingers black with mud.

You are the Poem.

You are the Poem

A blank page hiding inside the book
I shall open
What an unknown region
I shall fall in

In what particular consequences to expect
I know not
But in the scope of mine
you have occupied throughout

A few lines of love
I intend to write
From each piece of you
I collect
but still fail to settle a word
out of my mind

For there is no poem
I vow
You are the poem
for all