we regress to it,
the pantheon docketed as romance
some arriving in their clamor, some following lyric, chanced with the larceny of love and lust,
stealing looks with a language i never learned,
their pious prayers,
i come languid.
i come with quarrel.
shamefaced, vitrolic, in vertigo,
a vulnerability that pits itself quavering deep within the venter,
a pantheon poached of polytheism
but we all regress to it,
as if that last metaphor made any sense,
as if dialogs direct heartbreaks and crushes or attractions into discourse,
into something more than they already are.
as if alliteration could make any difference to what i am really saying,
the reality of human relationships.
of my relationships,
as if i've ever actually had any that felt real.
but i regress to them,
for the hope that at some point I can allow for the singular lanuage i've known
to rise from being more than infidel, to infest words once infixed in being incompetent, and solitary,
to rise up and progress into inflection.