I love me enough to cover any gaps: the fact that he doesn’t get it when I need silence at a certain part of a song to let melody and lyric sink in to my bones, that he talks through it loudly and quietly, that he thinks I am too sentimental sometimes, that he hasn’t listened to one episode of my podcast (but plugs it always), that sometimes I tuck my sarcasm in, my humour, because I know he won’t totally catch it, and that if he did he might not know what to do with it. I’ve known a love that had overflowed out of me and them, and it had nearly toppled me over. I’d barely been able to contain
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