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 breathless. 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 email@example.com.