Oh to weave those thoughts into words;
how I yearn to learn your pattern.
I trip, I fall, I bruise, it hurts;
misunderstanding - a deadly casm.
Unspoken words to skin, it burns;
decipher the pain I cannot.
While speech departs, action returns;
but without breath, our bond will rot.
Thus I reach out, unsteady, unsure;
hopeful to mend our silent rift.
Take my hand in yours I implore;
pull me closer, or grant our drift.
For the ground gives way bit by bit;
rough, festering seas lie beneath.
Water our seed, do not flood it;
rosebuds thrive on a renounced heath.
Contrasting love languages convey similar messages, but can we learn to speak eachother's?