Forlag Farrar, Straus and Giroux
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[...]You leave the phone on beside you as you fall asleep. I sit in my bed and listen to your breathing, until I know you are safe, until I know you no longer need me for the night.
“I want my books to have their own shelves,” you said, and that’s how I knew it would be okay to live together.
Those mornings when we kiss and surrender for an hour before we say a single word.
I imagine you saved my life. And then I wonder if I'm just imagining it.
[...]These are our lives. You went and broke our lives. You are so much worse than a cheater. You killed something. And you killed it when its back was turned.
These words will ultimately end up being the barest of reflections, devoid of the sensations words cannot convey. Trying to write about love is ultimately like trying to have a dictionary represent life. No matter how many words there are, there will never be enough.
We stopped counting our relationship in dates (first date, second date, fifth date, seventh) and started counting it in months. That might have been the first true commitment, this shift in terminology. We never talked about it, but we were at a party and someone asked how long we’d been together, and when you said, “A month and a half,” I knew we had gotten there.
Last night, I got up the courage to ask you if you regretted us.
“There are things I miss,” you said. “But if I didn’t have you, I’d miss more.”
You leaned your head into mine, and I leaned my head into yours. Dancing cheek to cheek. Revolving slowly, eyes closed, heartbeat measure, nature’s hum. It lasted the length of an old song, and then we stopped, kissed, and my heart stayed there, just like that.