The Language of Tenderness
For those who speak without words*
In the hush of morning,
your eyes gather sunlight—
a gentle exchange,
no syllables needed.
Fingers brushed across your hand
whisper what mouths cannot;
the pulse beneath your skin
beats slow and true,
a message I read by heart.
I watch the shape of your breath,
its rise and fall—
a language older than speech,
more honest than sound.
We speak in glances,
in the soft press of my palm
against your cheek,
in the silence that stretches
between us—full,
never empty.
Love finds its way
through a thousand wordless moments,
where tenderness becomes
the only tongue we need.
* My wife Anne’s stage-four brain cancer, glioblastoma, has, for all intents and purposes, robbed her of the capacity to speak.
Your friend,
Robert
https://robertmcbrydeauthor.com/
