bordered on one end by love-as-imprisonment, as husbandry, a price to being touched, a historical and therefore unsurprising cage writhing with tongues. On the other end: grief and its endlessly fabulous outfits; feathers for weeks; tulle. And in the swath between them, loneliness. Just that: loneliness. I thought that was all love could give me. I’m sorry. I thought I’d seen the future. I thought I knew the words to our one wild and unfathomable life. Forgive me; I see it now. I wasted so much time being wrong.
