there is a language,
of clear skies and fluffy
sheep-like clouds
of tree-whispers
and shooting stars.
spoken
in smile-lined faces
and shining eyes,
in old, worn books
and ink-stained fingers.
it does not need an alphabet
nor any characters
for it is written
in the wind, the stars
and the waves.
it is not a language
to be learned, but
to be remembered.
for asks nothing but
to be listened to.
after i die,
i like to think
that someone will plant
a tree over my body.
couples will carve their
"everlasting" love
here i am,
foolishly trying to describe
the feeling of sitting up
high in an oak
and writing poetry.
here i am,
watching the sunset
above long green grass
and typing into an ugly
love, you say,
is as tenderly golden as
buttercups in may,
as apollo's flaxen hair.
and you wish for a lover.
fated together
as achilles was with
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