ive always thought of running errands as the most intimate form of bonding: here, i now reveal myself to you with what kind of milk i buy, how i tell if a watermelon is ripe or not. i helped him choose ingredients for pasta (chili, zucchini, spinach, feta, pine nuts), and felt a burst of gratitude at this show of trust. walking along the citrus aisle i sensed a contentment i hadn’t felt for a long while. i looked down into the basket, filled with both our stuff mingled together — impossible to tell which lemon belonged to who. i thought, a little rebelliously, that if i could share a basket of groceries i knew i was capable of sharing a day with someone. this heavy basket of food, overflowing and intermingling, was my proof of that fact. all in it's mundane intimacy.
He had the awkward tenderness of someone who has never been loved and is forced to improvise.
I don't care, I love you anyhow. It is too late to turn you out of my heart. Part of you lives here.
i love you much (most beautiful darling) / more than anyone on the earth and i like you better than everything in the sky
you wouldn't just plant strawberries: you'd create another universe. I wanted you / warm and close as fresh laundry and here we are, Tuesday. Of course you love me, you're wearing one of my socks.
A white piece of paper on which is written: I’m down in the garden. I love you. Here’s coffee.
SORRY FOR SMELLING LIKE CIGARETTE SMOKE AND STARING AT YOU ALL THE TIME AND LAUGHING TOO LOUD AND HAVING A SHAKY VOICE WHEN YOU TELL ME BEAUTIFUL WORDS THAT WEREN'T MADE FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME