Language can be a beautiful thing. You can stack up phrases and bite into them like a sandwich of plump shrimp. You can twirl sentences like I curl hair around my fingers, gazing absently at its tensile brownness against my skin. You can dip into it like the soothing jasmine green tea I have recently discovered. It bubbles and warbles in a kettle and the words spill over as you lie on your back, high on the sound they make. Language is the quiet of California rain. The cacophony of Bhendi Bazaar. The little shiver that tingles down your back when he looks at you that way.
Language is a new chaise lounge from Ikea. I’ve been curled up on it and refuse to vacate. Language makes me reach for grey skies and wrap them snugly around the shoulders. Eat a doughy chocolate cookie for breakfast and warm tortillas for lunch. Language makes me unrecognizable to him. I prefer you, he says simply. And OJ bristles. Shifts uncomfortably on her cushion for a while, then goes back to watching steam fog up the window. The landscape shuts itself out and she turns inward again.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi