day 43 and I write poetry

today (in particular)
I miss speaking the language
that we created,
learned,
and in which only we are fluent,
the one comprised of sound effects, hand effects,
the one reserved for perfectly communicating
thoughts that are like
unfinished sentences, tongue clicks, stuffed animal psyche,
a language like a try/catch block,
collecting thoughts mildly ignorant, conjecture and insecure,
unspeakably offensive and intoxicating,
(but today, its)
a language that feels like
a short-term memory, like
being stuck
(without you)
in a jar of peanut butter
(with which to speak it)