Love Language

I’ve met many linguists and noticed

All the best ones were in love with someone

Belonging to the language they’d chosen to learn.

And I wondered if this was because

When you begin to love a language, you begin to love its culture,

And when you love a culture, you have to love its people,

And once you fall in love with its people

You must fall in love with one of them.

Or maybe those linguists’ skilled tongues

Were simply the fruits of ardent desire

To well communicate with the one they love.

I could understand this.

If my heart were taken by French hands,

Or some man from Martinique, Cameroon, Senegal

Yes. I would devour the French dictionary

To find the best words.

I would take all the grammar classes,

To ensure I could offer him

Ripened language.

Not half –formed sentiments

Stumbling and unready, as a child’s first steps.

I would need to paint with the brush

Of his mother tongue,

So I’d know I was uttering

What was real enough and sharp enough

To penetrate into the thickest part of his heart.

I’d bathe in that language.

Drunk with my bold amour.

We’d wrap our lips around those words together

Blooms in a forest where two souls come to commune.

True ‘art’ of conversation.