you write narratives in a language i don’t understand. i attempt, but the amount of jargon and symbol and syntax, knitted together with laughter, intrigue me and confuddle me, and with every smile, crooked teeth caught in-between upturned lips, i am one step closer to a lost traveler.
this is your mother tongue: functions, ifs and thens, and i try to follow your words, only for my thoughts to race faster and my own letters reduced to affirmations: “yes,” i would say, “okay,” then suddenly, breaths, because all i can do is nod. your voice treads faster than my mind. i chase your syllables with my lips. i swallow them. maybe you will forget, eventually, how disappointed you are with how empty i am.
translate, for me, your stories: your design, your creation, characters. weave them again with your fingers. soon, i will have learned enough to make a narrative of my own, using your words, of how my mind may just be attracted to yours, and (because i’m learning, after all) how fascinating i find you.
(for a friend, because of your narrative metaphor.)