If Suzanne Vega were here right now, I wouldn’t look her in the eye. I’d stop and hold my stare out toward the window. I wouldn’t run. I wouldn’t hide. I’d stand there waiting for language to help me. Language, rushing in like liquid. Language, shaking hands with her – for me. Language, singing my songs back to her. We’d share chords, and puzzled looks. We’d search through our history books. We’d sing in (near-) perfect harmony. I would curl up tight into a ball, and watch her write me down. I’d frown at what she said, until I heard her sing it true. Then I’d uncurl and say hello. We’d watch TV. She’d take a bath. I’d wait – then come in when it was my turn. I’d read through her notebooks while she slept. I’d dream of her reading my notebooks. Imagine her sunning herself with my words. Swiftly stealing like a thief. Then calm, like the ocean. Meandering. Basking. In language.