He is sitting at his desk, book open.

“I love you,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.

He grunts, turns a page, and I laugh.

“I’m headed to the store,” I say,

And head down to the garage.

I start the car and smile

At the full tank of gas and a clean windshield.

He comes up to bed and slips in.

I roll over, and curl up against him.

“You smell good,” I mumble.

He wraps his arm around me,

Kisses my head and begins to snore.

His words aren’t my words of love,

But then a card comes in the mail,

Or there are always flowers

That are changed out every Friday.

Or the new light bubs magically appear

And the A/C filters are always clean

As are the dishes left from dinner.

It’s a special kind of language,

The one that settles, comforts,

And hold special meaning

That doesn’t really need words.

Love is love in many languages.