French
I randomly and uncontrollably
spoke in a French accent
as we left our American Cafe.
It built up in me like a rogue sneeze.
My voice was petite in my mouth.
I’s became e’s.
My e’s were sustained, held long,
cradled.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Th to dz.
H’s more silent than our small town roads.
The only thing more stressed than me
were my last syllables.
I was not faking.
I was suddenly French.
You hooked your arm through mine as we
walked down the drizzled downtown streets.
I told you I wanted to be called Phoebe
or maybe Ophelia.
Phoebe because I run like Phoebe from Friends.
Formless running, all over town, searching.
Or Ophelia because I was figuratively drowning.
We talked about all the places we wanted to go,
like everything was completely normal.
India, Ireland, France.
Before we parted ways,
you held me like I held my e’s.
Long and tenderly,
like something we were afraid to break.