The language in your voice

It was your fingers I noticed first—
long and thick
with nails painted burning red,
tapping the rim of your coffee cup.
Lost in the drone of another Seoul
afternoon—
flipping through pages
of a dog-eared language book
words and phrases
highlighted pink and yellow;
listening to my language tripping

over your tongue

vowels and consonants accentuated
with aspirated strain.
It was your smile I noticed last—
when you looked up
from your book,
running the tip of your tongue
across moist
dark red lips.
“Finished.”