It is 11:14 in London now.

Your calloused fingers move across the page to the words I do not know. 
They whisper for you to speak to me in a language we both understand. 
That sweet comfort of your ordinary tongue
and mine, recounting every mile of your body
mapping where it stumbled and did not break.
Put your scars in my mouth so I can taste where life made you bitter and tender
and here, sweet.

Make a slow journey out of me
like traveling home
down a long road
in extreme weather conditions.