Words scare me.
They’re like tourists who don’t speak any English
But chatter excitedly in their impenetrable hollow.
Flocking about, but garnering only
Blank stares.
Sometimes they run altogether and are indistinguishable –
One from another –
Blurry.
Sometimes you’re completely unaware of their presence
Until your own squinted eyes reveal
Their staunch presence in the background
Of your tangible memories.
You know they must be important –
The fulcrum of days, music, business procedures, wanderings.
They hang like a fog –
Around.
But when you swing at them,
They slide through the crevices of your fingers.
Unable to be grasped.
Foreign.