B., Somewhere in this essay is a love letter to you. Your love brought me back to my quiet. I needed a new language. I needed a new story—one where I don’t have to remember the beginning and don’t know the end. This is a love letter to our love, which was never the kind of durable love that built itself around errands and taxes. It was all our bodies and your brilliance, your language and where our language trailed off together into something dark and shimmering—like the sea, like the mud, like the shape of my imagination when I clutched a book for its world and its heft, like the Nashville
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