I was brought up like a new verb, always
conjugating myself, stressing out
my commas ran freely about my sentences, causing miscommunication:
an ever-occurring slurring of my first and last words.
I recite the verbs I hold dearest right before I sleep:
To want (you)
To have (you)
To be (us)
I am corrected often; you remind me that I am your second language,
and therefore you will always have a question for me.
Pronounce me yours! and please leave my name on your lips,
in your accent, bent with a distaste for unfamiliar syntax.
You understand me with hand gestures,
you measure your fluency in my obvious pleasure,
I am found in your translation among the irregular verbs,
waiting wordless, for once
An infinitive, taken out of context
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