I think we all speak a different kind of language than each other, but you sound a whole lot like coffee on a Sunday morning and the rain is falling bitter against the windowpane and your elbows are making holes in the countertops, and I only want to tell you that I wish I was as close as the threads of your t-shirt, and if I can’t be that, then I’ll be content with drinking my drink beside you, with the rain sloppy open mouth kissing the roof, trying to dismantle the etymology of a conversation that falls out of the realm of words.