I always try to write about you, but all my questions have been answered. Love is supposed to be reserved for everything contrary to fact. Because it is cryptic. And it is taut. I would just be spewing out facts. Facts and facts and facts.
With you, for instance, it was never some grandiose moment. Some over-arching, big worded adjective after adjective epiphany. No, it was just the settling realization that out of a million variables, there you were.
No one wants to read about facts though. So I suppose I’ll scribble down facts that make sense to the only reader that should ever matter. That is what the greatest poets ever did. Read and you will see.
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