so do thoughts.
Some grow so deep
that you can see
how far someone has gone.
Every time we use a word,
its whole story unfolds
at once within us.
Yet, you had to travel there first,
or find the one who did for you.
You cannot unlearn what has shaped you,
but you begin to forget the journey
behind you,
erasing everything of who you were
except that singular instant
which still remains.
That deeper place you made from pain
has no body, no face, no hands,
not even you;
as I write—or wrote—
that instant still remains,
even after its roots are forgotten.
But how can one touch
an idea, a feeling, a thought,
without inventing a language for it:
our bodies,
our hands,
our faces,
and speaking through them?
A language of two.