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  • You sit at the kitchen table reading that book I lent you. The one written by that man who spoke of the love that dare not speak its name. Occasionally you turn to me with questions: "What does this word mean? What does HE want from the reader? Why do you make me read this shit?" The love I feel for you, forged now over twenty years, pockmarked with hospital stays and trial separations bubbles up as I reach across the great hall of our memories. I tell you the meaning is in the experience of the reader. You drop the book, opt for a tale more simple. Reality in monosyllables. I smile at you. Acknowledge the effort.

    I sit on the couch we bought together. I surround myself with pages about love lost, energy wasted on the search for the unsearchable, the impossibly perfect. You shoot a look of patience at this odd little man who every night chants your name into the darkness. To you this is all just our day-to-day. For me this is the miracle of a life hard won after too many years of holding out for the bent knee, the strike of heavenly thunder.

    We look up at the same moment. Why speak anymore when all we need is the cup of tea proffered, the guilty laugh at the private joke shared? Why ask why when even the table and the couch know the reason I write these words to you. Love. You win. I guess you were right. Sometimes a monosyllable trumps a library of ideas.
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