What colour is my love for you?
A gentle pink, like the blush on your cheeks, or the tint of your lips, while we look and love?
No, my love.
The colour of love is the deep red of blood.
From the cuts of cruelty,
and wounds of the world.
The colour of love is blood.
What look is my love for you?
The look of a lover, like a dream, or reflection, as I gaze in your eyes?
No, my love.
It is also in the tears that I shed.
As I look with wonder
at the wounded beauty of you.
The look of love is compassion.
What language is my love for you?
In the softly spoken word, or poetry of passion, as in the language of lovers?
No, my love.
I speak as much in the silence and in the tears.
As much to your scars,
as to the softness of sound.
The language of love is life.
What feeling is my love for you?
The feeling of silk as I brush against your skin, pass my fingers through your hair?
No, my love.
The feeling of love is in the texture of your heart.
I trace the scars that tell your story,
the thorns that give your life a rugged landscape.
The feeling of love is rough.
What shape is my love for you?
The shape of my heart or outline of you as I trace your fine face?
No, my love.
The shape of love is the shape of a cross as I open my arms,
to receive the nails,
to die for you.
The shape of love is a cross.
Feb 2024
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