Before we called it love,
before we named it anger,
it was only a tremor in the chest —
wild, wordless, alive.
This poem is about what happens
when language touches emotion —
and what it quietly takes away.
Emotions—
deep, fresh, and tender
like green shoots
breaking through rain-soaked soil—
arrive without grammar.
They rise quietly,
carrying the scent of earth,
the tremble of first light,
the fragile insistence of becoming.
But language waits.
It waits with its sharp tools—
definitions, categories, conclusions.
It gathers these wild stirrings
into its boiling cauldrons,
heats them,
thickens them,
pours them into shapes
the world knows how to store.
“Love.”
“Anger.”
“Jealousy.”
“Desire.”
Neat words.
Solid containers.
And something raw begins to disappear.
The tremor before love becomes a declaration.
The ache before grief becomes a statement.
The unnamed hunger before desire becomes confession.
Language smoothens the rough edges,
trims the unruly corners,
files down the dangerous excess—
until emotion stands upright,
presentable,
fit for public exchange.
But who remembers
the first wild pulse?
The version that refused translation?
The version that did not yet know
whether it was joy or terror?
Naming gives clarity—
and takes something away.
In assigning a term,
we sometimes assign a boundary.
What was once fluid
becomes fixed.
What was once fragrance
becomes formula.
And the original surge—
untamed, unscripted,
glowing in its own confusion—
retreats quietly
into the fathomless depths
of the soul that felt it first.
It does not die.
It waits.
Dormant.
Like a seed beneath hardened ground,
carrying within it
a memory of rain—
and the possibility
of breaking through
again.
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