Here’s a poem written by Vicky, the seventeen-year-old protagonist in the novel I am currently working on.
The Language of Love
Love is that quiet thing that slides in on socked feet,
And doesn’t say I’m here.
Or love is that whispered word not perfectly heard,
Like in a game of telephone.
Sometimes I think that to be sure and true,
To love must always be past tense,
When at the end you sigh,
I loved you. Every second of my life with you. I loved you.
And maybe silence is the soil of love,
Where it can dig deep roots,
And speak only when it blooms.
