He doesn't say, "I love you . . . "
. . . brings me coffee in bed,
makes me the odd funny taco.
He doesn't say, "I love you . . . "
. . . braves the storms, clears the
walks and preps the transport.
He doesn't say, "I love you . . . "
. . . cuts the grasses and rakes
the leaves, arranges the tables
and the chairs.
He doesn't say, "I love you . . . "
. . . watches show with me, those
not his cup of tea, opens the wine
we share, but has just a tad.
He doesn't say, "I love you . . . "
. . . he cuts the wood, builds the
fire and gazes into the embers
with me.
He doesn't say, "I love you . . . "
. . . those meaningless words,
he exemplifies them in every
action, every gesture, every
thought.
He doesn't say, "I love you . . . "
. . . te amo, te quiero, te adoro,
je t'aime.
He doesn't say, "I love you . . . "
. . . he speaks a different
language, a language of the
gods . . .
. . . and I worship, not at his
feet, but at his heart.
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