The Language of Love

(A 100-word Shakespearean style sonnet for J. Harstad)

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.

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