Spanish will always be the shiny red bike

hung upside down on the wall

above an unpolished wooden bookcase;

the black guitar case

underneath piles of magazines

and ungraded tests;

the antique armchairs,

burgundy leather chipping off

to expose singular cotton threads.

It will always be the black laptop

with three colored squares at the bottom;

black and white pictures enclosed

in silver picture frames;

the wordless acoustic guitar music

forever in the background.

It will always be my fear of

your riding motorcycles;

our inside jokes that only

poorly translate into English;

both a risk and my safety net.

Spanish will always be spoken in your voice,

captured in your smile --

ingrained and inerasable.