We don’t say ‘I love you’, and it’s a hot twist of pleasure inside me, perverse. When those feelings press up inside, wet and close and urgent at my throat, what I fling out is a string of syllables that would have been nonsense to me six months ago, hard and soft, Celtic.
This divorce from my past is a healing amputation. It’s a tiny cut that might drop heartbreak’s deadweight. It means I might be able to believe.
Touch wood.
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