Andrew, you talked to me in a foreign language. Greeted me some mornings with a sigh in your sleep, the tug of sheets as you twisted away. I tried to guess the meaning of your down turned lips, wondered what it would take for us to overcome this language barrier. Translations, interpretations, only made your silences louder. And when we finally did brake through, Andrew, I only wished that we could go back to the quiet. On days where you wanted to talk, all I wanted to do was turn the radio on, sit peacefully, hand in hand, and listen to Damian Rice, Patrick Watson. Instead, you hurled words at me, nouns and verbs shattering against the apartment walls. On these days, everything was lost in translation.
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