Bitter/sweet

My sweet, my heart.

These words leave me with reluctance. Whispered endearments.

My sweet my heart my own darling.

Some words have texture. I remember staring at a Flemish painting, marvelling at how the stately futures were weighed down by rigid panels of cloth, and how each depicted jewel brought under the skin of my fingers the remembrance of stones and metal. So much flat reality.

Some words are both flat and textured. I repeat them, finding comfort in their triviality, but they are like poison. A phone against my lips, a spring morning filled with bitterness, washed away by rain.

My own darling, my dearest love.

You discover endearments in every language.

French is my mother tongue. It moves me. I believe wistfulness is its best mode. We have strong consonants, vibrant fricatives, butthey taper off into mellowness, giving an impression of relectance and abandon, quite unlike the watchfulness of German. You cannot really let a sentence drift away in German, or if you do, you are speaking it like a foreigner.

But yes, it took falling in love in English to really love English. In fact, being in love with a grammar Nazi, a high-stickler, gave me freedom to explore the recesses, the dirty corners and bring back forgotten treasures, ready to be laughed away or fiercely protected. His English is better than mine because beyond its accuracy, it is English. Mine is a hamper of toys. I feel no protectiveness towards it, the way I do towards my French.

My love, my delicious darling. Such flatness! I acknowledge their well-worn smirk, unavoidably sickening.To me, though, they are just broken in. I still feel these words and recognize them for the treacherous friends they are. All I've found within them, their music, the rumble of syllables finally meaning something. All I've lost.

In between the lost and the found, the texture of these words: an elusive, delicious texture that brings a smile, and an almost smile, as I say them.