Totally unfair that mine is touch.
He knows it too - he knew it way before i did and has used it to his advantage all these years since we became each other's.
His is boring - acts of service... blehhhh.
How to compare that crazed mind blown feeling when he touches me - to scrubbing out a toilet for him so that he feels my love too?
But it's a give and take this mysterious love - it's an igniting and it's feeding - it's wanting and it's subduing - it's butterflies and chores - all working together to make something uniquely ours.
And stutteringly i learn his language - just as he became fluent in mine. Carefully i memorize the cadence of the unfamiliar tongue that speaks to him my adoration. It will take me a lifetime to master it - sweet joy that the resulting work turns into a stunning masterpiece.
And yes - sometimes a word - a touch - an action - is hopelessly mistranslated. Sometimes my faith fails me and i doubt that this pretty picture could really belong to us. Sometimes we choose to speak in our own languages and the beautiful meaning becomes meaningless to the one who finds the message to be indecipherable.
But then - i pick up where i left off. i learn the basics, he teaches me his alphabet and i show him mine. We strip down our language barrier with our bare hands - and love wins.