Speaking in Tongues

What is the language that I now speak? To my ear, it is not strange.

The words are my words, the melody of creation, memory, something. But I feel the confused need to translate preceded by flat unhearing eyes, given up. Strange language, indeed.

She spoke it in the first moment. She said Mine and the world lit. Each syllable an act of generation. The chaos sifted through the words we all spoke together, before. So, how come you now question, before flattening out, the movement of my tongue?

I thought I remembered it was also your patois and we spoke it together in the rain-splattered night and unwelcome dawn and the days after when I watched the words on your lips and they shined and I shined and we spoke in the same sounds and shapes (my circles, your trapezoids, well met, shook hands) and you and I and the breeze were well in agreement. Bless the language, strange perhaps, that we spoke then.

May you and I share definition and pronunciation again before our mouths run out of unspoken words. My questions, your answers, the unsteady truth -- they are not ours but snatched from the sky above us all. The barrier of a translated tongue should part us no more again. I am strange. The world is strange. Strange words are what we speak, spoke, and commit to the future.

Strange ideas that language cannot touch in the static of conversation.