when someone says 'i love you' it's always a question|
and the answer one hopes for is 'i love you, too.' but with
us there is no question - we speak these words slowly and they
destroy the uncertainty that makes prisoners of so many.
we do not ask to be loved, but let love come to us like
cool breezes come to a hot morning: indifferent to
the skin it goosebumps and the bodies it brings out of the
shadows and into the summer light whose heat has been killed.
when you say 'i love you' it is a piņata breaking
open and everything good spills out onto the mud like
the stars spill out into the black sky and make the part
of the milky way that is so many tiny spots of
light placed so sweetly that i watch them until the morning
comes, and what truth could i tell you then but those four words, love.
Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien