Inflect Me, Baby

Author’s note: Learning Czech is like…

We started with coffee and a casual clause.
Then you slipped into instrumental—
and I never recovered.

You’re the kind of language
that undresses slowly—
case by case,
stripping structure till I’m bare,
unsure what I’m allowed to carry.

You’re always just outside my lines.
I beg in the present tense—
but you only finish
in future perfect.

I used to flirt in French—
no strings, no syntax.
But you expect agreement
in every position.
And when I get it wrong,
you correct me—
say I’m only animate
when the case demands it.

You said you wanted space—
but still required the right tone.
I tried to meet you halfway,
you scrambled the word order
and said it was poetry.

You said you don’t mind taking the lead—
but you still insist on second position.
And G-d forbid I come before the clitic.

You’re soft consonants with hard limits,
and half your meaning’s always implied.
Every time I think I’ve cracked your code,
you shift the stress mid-word—
make me unvoice myself to match you.

I fell for your false friends,
got intimate with idioms
that meant nothing you said they did.
You whispered sweet nothings
with a softened ď—
then proofread my sigh.

I dream in declension tables,
whisper moans in conditional,
Wake up misaligned
and try not to cry.

But I’m in too deep.
I’ve stopped resisting your structure,
declined every soft boundary you gave me—
and still,
I keep hoping
you’ll inflect me right.