The Language of Tongues

We are the language of tongues,

waving in the breeze like

autumn leaves

to any stranger that might dare us

to prove that we exist.

We are cease and desist letters

to any negative values.

We are the hues you can't see,

the heartfelt melodies

backed up like a Mack truck

by tiny buzzing bugs

and heartbeats that can be heard

all the way from space.

We are anything but space,

so closely woven together that people often

mistake us for DNA,

helically wrapped around each others'

belly buttons -

we are the people that laugh at

the words “belly button”,

and scream when we push each others'

buttons.

We are that kid

in the candy store's cavities,

so full of joy that we

scream like the biggest hill on a roller coaster

that leaves us blind to each others' faults

for days on end.

The day after that,

we are eighties hair bands as background music

and never the right kind of candy bar.

We are far from perfect, Hell!

We occasionally can't stand each other,

so we carve magnetic poles from our senses of humor

and lightning rod our storm systems into staying.

We are thoughts left swaying in the breeze,

seconds pulling at our hair,

fingers gasping for air

leaving us breathless,

gasping out

I

love

you

to every junkyard dog

that insists that we don't have it as bad

as he does.

We are kisses with the gloves off,

esophagi filled with thoughts never intended

for public consumption -

We are also often times more beautiful

than any starry night.

We are silhouetted branches on a tree trapped in winter

promising to come out and play in the spring,

We are something that will one day

really mean something

and guess what?

that one day is today! because

We are butterfly wings

bright as Technicolor dreams,

as promises made from moon beams

and I can still see

you sneaking sidelong glances at me.

We are the random chances that are not just chances.

We believe in falling stars,

and I will always wish on you.

We are the way your eyes shine like lighthouses,

calling my lovesick lungs back home -

We are every poem

scribbled into the backs of my hands,

writing utensil attacks that land in

the curve of every black blue and red ink heart

carving your name into my life.

We are me asking you to be your wife,

and now we are we.