If a man is only as good as his word,
I would kill for the vocabulary of a writer.

The way they say crapulous and grumpish and
jargogle all in the same sentence that
really riles me up.
The way they express their liking of the apricity
and snowbroth of winter with a lukewarm cocoa
concoction in their cup.

I vivaciously yearn for the legato and staccato
of their tongues.
For they are the representation of all
beautiful melodies tragically left
unsung.

The manner in which they state politics
are schadenfreude and dysphemistic
is honestly quite genius.
Their amalgamation of mot justes quite often
leaves me speechless.

I want to memorize the scripts of their
seductions and wrap my head around their diction.
To them, experiencing lethologica is nothing
but mere fiction.

For I would marry the people who told them
synonyms don’t exist.
And throw a party for the heartbreaks that
turned them into poets, oh I insist.

Because there is nothing more quintessential
than the right word.
No, nothing at all, for a comparison would be
absurd.

I want to witness the first time they stand
silent and aghast.
But for now, a writer’s jargon remains
unsurpassed.