Counting the Amorous

“If a thing loves, it is infinite.” – William Blake

The last time we saw each other, we were meandering in the parks lot of a nouveau riche coffee shop. After you hugged me, I cried. I withheld my salt leaks until you were in the confines of your sedan.

I thought the air in D’s car would help, but it left the droplets cold and dry on my collarbone. (I usually reserve shame for car rides and tax season.) At the time, D told me to “nutsack up” and save my tears for something tangible. But I knew then, what I still know now: that if love isn’t broken, or confronted, or dismissed, it waits.

Passive motherfucker.


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