...

Language... that foreign country
where I am a stranger,
always in transit,
always lost.

The lips curled...
mirroring  a line of bitterness and frustration.

Lacking words to give me meaning
I hold on to the sound of the wind entwined
in the bare branches of the trees,
I hold on to my abandoned body,
cooling like a cake in the edge of a window,
I hold on to your smile ....
on to the feeling of the sun on my face,
I hold on to this other language made
of little gestures, sounds, images ...
I hold on to the beauty of the unspeakable