Whole strings of them. You'd think they had substance, the way we love to throw and stretch them out, taut lines to peg ordinary meanings on. Flash, flash, nothing, flash, flash, nothing, flash. The way we decipher the silences, you'd think love was written in code. In a language like love there are only syllables even a child could manage.
Children speak it.
So does grass, reaching upwards towards air. The language of trees is heavy with love, florid and accented, we even give flowers when we do not know what to say. You hear it in the dreamy purr of the cat curled up on the carpet or on your lap, you can listen to the orioles shrilling, frantic, and think it brings pleasure. A fish lays eggs its eyes staring straight ahead, as if at nothing, not wanting to look back. Too small and too soft to be marbles the clear spheres form in spurts of foam rising to the surface like thought balloons.