There is a pattern to your breath, a morse code in your pulse.
Hands on rounded hips, lips part, a sylph shared in a kiss.
I pass her to you, a safe harbor for our burgeoning language; we learn, creation through motion – a thigh turned, an arm raised.
There is a genesis, a light.
This is how I tell you that I left the groceries on the counter but hid the chocolates.
This is how I tell you that I watched you water the roses and thought, ‘What color do roses blush?’
This is how I tell you that I did not feed the cat and she will likely follow you like an overly attached child, bumping your leg. She will not perish – she is quite fat – but she will act as if death is no far thing.
This is how I tell you what I know best. That the language of our bodies is the language of our lives. And that words – beautiful, amazing words – are poor substitutes for a hungry cat or a blushing flower.