Language Is For The Ages

by bru.

I touch the pages of my life
as if I will be able to feel what I felt
when it was happening.

I want to hug the pages,
touch my lips to its words.

They're each a picture of what I want and wish to be:
A firm and solid and permanent object.
Sure in its existence.
Never changing.
Never ever.

There is a romance to my words and I.
No,
not romance.
My blood surges with words.
With the words of my lives
and I am living them with contempt.

I feel space underneath me.
Space filled with all the words I've yet to speak.
All the words I've yet to write.
All the words I've yet to kiss
and hold against my chest and cheek.

I see words coming out of people's mouths
when they aren't speaking
I see words coming out of people's ears
when they're not thinking.
All the words they've yet to write and speak
and hold against someone else's cheek.

A trail of words follows everyone.
Ready to fill them up when they run out.

Our skin is made up of little words pushed together
as a picture is made up of small dots.
If you look close enough,
you can see pages of the dictionary
scrawled on your ankle.

Where do you think we got the dictionary from?
It's been on our skin our entire lives.
We just never looked hard enough.