The Linguist's Lament

why do some languages feel more real than others?
i'd ask you, but i fear you'd not understand
the beauty of miscommunication
 is that you will never know the songs in my mind
i can whisper in words you will never glean
and all you can do is listen
a babbling-brook of syllables
consonants you'd trip over like wet cobbles
sonorous trills your tongue fails to shape
i'd love to hear you try, anyway

i could tell you my heart's desires,
and i have.
to you the outpouring of my heart
is an orchestra of impermeability
i use my words as a shield
hide behind them, a wall of foreign obscurity
you laugh as i call you my love
as i will never tell you what that word means

when language is a lance, a sword
who wields it?
my words feel more real in my second tongue,
my third. simple shapes, painting by numbers
a route i have been taught, lines on a road.
i follow them to their inevitable conclusion.
half of me hopes, and half of me cowers
at the power they'd hold, if only you could understand.