Sara Fang/TMD.
My love language has always been words
By that, I don’t mean I constantly tell you 
how much I love you.
(I should, I don’t.)
What I mean by that is I spend hours 
handpicking letter after letter
leaving that simple kind attached to its stem,
Instead grasping by the roots 
your tender soul that never fails to warm mine
tangled in the undergrowth.

At times my heart feels so full it could burst.
I am joy incarnate, eager to open my mouth,
set free the buds on the tip of my tongue.
But this flowery language only gets caught in my throat,
the thorns dragging along my esophagus,
scraping me bare from the inside out
and I am left choking 
on fragments I try endlessly to piece together 
but which only leave me 

Other times I simply don’t have the words.
Those days are the hardest
When I want to wrap you in language,
Tell you I understand, 
say I’m sorry in every dialect I know.
Instead I offer you my hand and we sit
Not a word between us.

One day I will write you sunset poetry,
Lines to read when the light is fading
Reminders that another thinks of you in the dark.
The words may be an imperfect bouquet,
A brambled mix of chrysanthemums and clover
but I pray you notice the fallen petals on the ground–
May you follow the path they trace home to me.

MiC Columnist Isabelle Fernandes can be reached at