You are so close, and I can’t reach you.

But death is not freedom. For a moment, it can look like freedom. But then it's death. Anything. Something. Nothing.

There is no word for the recipient of the love. There is only a word for the giver. There is the assumption that lovers come in pairs.

I want my own books to have their own shelves," you said, and that's how I knew it would be okay to live together.

I am not dangerous. Only the stories are dangerous. Only the fictions we create, especially when they become expectations.

This isn't even something I've feared, because I never knew it was a possibility.

And still, for all the jealously, all the doubt, sometimes I will be struck with a kind of awe that we're together. That someone like me could find someone like you --- it renders me wordless. Because surely words would conspire against such luck, would protest the unlikelihood of such a turn of events.