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I was younger yesterday. My body was a little lighter then. There are people in love with shadows and cardboard toilet paper tubes. They are waiting at bus stops. They are having dinner with friends. They are touching your spine with invisible fingertips like I do when you are crying. I am sad when you are crying. I pick lint from your t-shirt. I cup your elbow. I tell you about my favorite film. I whisper about my greatest worries and I tug a sweater on over my head. I begin dancing in the kitchen. Other people fill metal buckets with their love. They scrub the floor with thin sponges and stain their clothes with dirty tap water. Their love empties into streams and rivers. They scratch their heads.
Is this what love is? You ask when you are crying and I am touching your spine with my invisible fingertips. Little touches meet your right hand, fit the curve of your stomach, hide between your toes, live beneath your bed. My feet are sinking slowly into the floor. I am so unsure if you love me anymore. If quiet was a person, you would be him.