i was born a syllable
There is a chant on the inside of my mouth, and I used to think it was Arabic, because Arabic is the only language that's old enough to have more than five hundred words for dream. But that's not true, the chant is not Arabic, because the words I speak don't coil around my head like a skanky whiff of opiates, nor can I charm my way into slacks of white cotton white. All I know is this: someone has a chant that matches mine, and this is what makes love.