affecta

I finally figured it out. Years of trying to determine an unidentifiable, non-existent accent.
He simply spoke on the bottom of his tongue.
Ending the word as if his teeth were touching but they never were.
He didn't know he did this.
Even in all of his theatrics, his precision, his carefully timed pauses.
He couldn't know he did this because even drunk, he never spilled his words.
They tumbled and arched as cautiously as ever.
There is never a finality, only a pause for weight and measure, mistakes and lessons.
Things begin again.

Boy, complicate me.
Make it a mess.
Tell me you love me
and I'll tell you.
Back here again
It seems I've done us both wrong
because you'll take me back everytime.
Fucking fool, find your own way.

So I can follow you into the wrong.