On Differences

Two Languages

0324.2025

I talk in storms

so the truth can rain.

You speak in safety,

and seek the storm’s shelter.

(I can’t hear whenever you call out.)

And my much is much too fast,

too alive to be placed neatly

into the quiet rooms

you live in.

You call it chaos—

but it’s just another truth,

burning and raw,

the way a soul burns

when it connects.

And yet,

I learned some stillness,

the measured replies,

your way of caring without words.

I learned to whisper when I wanted to sing.

I learned your language.

You wanted the echo,

but not my voice.

And now,

I sit with a lost companion—

two friends who made something,

but couldn’t read the same page

without translating every line.

Still,

I wish you peace,

in your quiet house

of quiet love.

And I’ll keep speaking storms

to those who understand

thunder can be beautiful.

m.c.f.