Foreign Language
Echoes of a peculiar sound fill my rib cage.
A sound escapes my mouth,
And my whole body goes alert,
Trying to determine
Whether there is danger.
It recognises the sound,
But not quite.
It searches through memory,
Turning over forgotten pages,
Trying to remember
What this feeling is.
I stiffen at this familiar,
Yet distant sensation.
I try to read my body language,
Hoping I'll understand.
But it is a foreign language.
Why does every fibre in me
Insist
I should recognise it?
Like it's a language
That once rolled off my tongue
Without needing translation.
But my eardrums puzzle it out.
All I hear
Is a peculiar sound
That feels borrowed.
The room fills
With its echoes.
The longer I listen,
The more I realise
Something is missing.
It sounds...
Hollow.
Like an actor
Who knows every line,
But has forgotten
How to mean them.
And then,
I recognise it.
Not because it became familiar—
But because I remembered
Who it belonged to.
It was my laughter.
So that's why
My body couldn't place it.
It had been so long
Since joy had spoken
In my own voice.
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