I am his chronicler. I should be able to play with words, but I have no words for this time and place.
Last night I dreamed I was a poem, and that was where all the words had disappeared to. They had become parts of me. I had words flickering like flames on the tip of my tongue. I had them all inside and around my chest, lining the edges of my body like a second skin. There were sentences swimming on the surface of my face. There was a whole novel inside my heart.
I have lost my language.