The Language of Love

(A 100-word Shakespearean style sonnet)

We find ourselves inside this corridor

of language; she comes from the eastern door,

and I the western one, each taking more

steps toward what fate may hold for us in store.

 

We offer stuttered greetings first at best,

both in our languages, but neither one

much understanding very much the rest

excepting nervous smiles and awkward tongues.

 

Advancing ever closer slowly still

she utters words she’s learned from hearing me,

and I from her, communication will

keep growing to the middle where we meet.

 

Each fluent from the first in one respect:

our love transcends what words can’t represent.