Our Secret Language

I don't know

if giving parts

more precious than limbs

for an idea like love

is love.

I don't know what the 

"me"

is 

in the context of love.

I can find my fingers

and easily scribble

lines on a damp shore

whose eternal aspect

engulfs my tiny mortality.

Emotions

are an encumbrance 

- a wayfarer loaded down

by necessities that

aren't necessities.

Love can be

like charging the beach

at Normandy,

except the pillboxes

and machine gun nests

only exist because we allow them to.

It is two people

sitting with legs & arms

crossed like tangled wires.

Or those two people

with backs posted as they sit

and stare at their own

particular vistas.

A valley of brown earth

with seeds planted

by mercurial hands,

thoughts, drives, passions

and a new found awareness.

An untilled, untouched

and unconquered land -

formed by two hands

holding a thick brush

where rich colors eke out

an existence on fine bristles.

Each if, you looked closely enough,

resembled minuscule spheres of all the color

that we know and don't know,

pooling in thick oil or

languid watercolor blood.

Such a brush,

held by both hands,

children on a Ouija board - 

with no focus or aim,

allowing the art to speak for itself.

An easel that resembles a valley

formed, tilled and conquered

in a place which exists

in a secret language held

by two people.