The Language

To talk to sing to sigh, the sounds we know.

The looks, the smile, the physical fall.

As ever beautiful as the sun burns,

But not the language of us in awe. 

Though if there be words of his longed return

That convince the sprite to again be near,

I beg them to be known to me with haste

And I will shout them for the stars to hear.

  But if no words be that strong, capture here: The other language the lovers whisper. The silence of a thousand dreams we share, The gestures of request: kiss him, kiss her! 


And the details of his atmosphere now

Such an uncontainable thought to me.

Every place we touched is magic found

In every room the language could be. 


The plants are not what made his room eden;

Their scent mixing with his natural light.

And it was too early for me to see

The beginning of the language take flight: 


“Shuffle, lean, rest,


Look down, shuffle

Traffic, silence.

Place a kiss down, blush, now roll up your sleeves.

Wrist, wrist, arm, ring, back and forth, look away.

Smile and sigh, now look back shy to me.

Cast your loving thoughts to the air and say:

Lean back, arms up, wrist, rest upon your seat.

A blush, a sigh, a memory now past.

Turn to the wall and breathe, now wish it so

Give in and stare at me, eyelids at half mast.” 


And it grew, and it grew. The love, the look,

The language knows your heart, and it sung.

So strong, it begged, like a heartbreak for death.

So hard to resist it seeped to the tongue. 


But the wonder in silence still remained

In the last time I was blessed to be read.

Sitting across from the heaven we made

Dear God, there was the language and it said: 


“Smile and gaze, let your sweet face go red.

Stare, stare, stare, and words make the tea get cold.

Turn to the window and breath, wish it more

The sun hits his face and his eyes turn gold.” 


Immaculate, in that moment and since.

Unangelic angel, loved in his flaws.

Because words were only an aid to see

His desire, my only dream, and our cause. 


But this poem is far from his wonder and

Our language impossible to know.

Just to experience, not to explain.

And to remember until it is so.


Our language cant be a description,

It is the air of the warm hearts it stole.

It’s wisdom has never taught me it’s words

Only years of making love with my soul.



This poem is about: 


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