I wish I’m fluent in speaking one of our languages. I kind of feel miserable knowing the fact that it’s spoken in my mother’s side of the family, and I never even got to be perfect at it; and the fact that I’ve practiced it since childhood.
I wish I could speak it so eloquently like the soft texture of soy milk dripping down from my tongue, instead of speaking it in fragments like puzzles which pieces do not fit.
And it goes the same way I feel for you — I wish I’ve memorised you, word by word, in every matter, and in every syllable.
I wish I could speak you in tongues like you’re my favourite word in every language — but I can’t and I don’t.
And now, I just feel miserable, wishing I am as fluent in loving you the way I wish I am fluent in speaking the language I’ve grown to known — you.
