Love is baking bread without a recipe—
I knead my feelings into dough,
you stir spices into yours,
and we wait in separate kitchens,
believing our ovens share the same heat.
But words spill out,
burned crumbs scattered across countertops,
each sentence overheated,
too raw at the center or charred at the edges.
We scrape burnt promises from pans,
tossing half-baked truths into silence.
Our tongues hold dialects
only our hearts can speak—
we whisper fluently in touches,
in glances tossed like coins into fountains.
Yet spoken aloud,
language tangles itself into knots
of almost-understanding.
We wear frustration like ill-fitting clothes,
pulling at the seams of conversation.
But sitting shoulder-to-shoulder
on a bench in the rain,
listening to drops tap rhythms on pavement,
we find communion
in the unspoken sermons of closeness.
Sometimes I wonder if,
perhaps we should abandon dictionaries,
build altars from quietness,
let the quiet chant
of breathing in sync
become our language?
Because maybe
love's deepest meaning
was never meant
to survive translation.
Or maybe it was,
I am not sure.
