It seems like I’ve always had a lover, I cannot do without. He has a temper, she’s undecided. He’s a compulsive smoker, she’s a compulsive hoarder. His architectural tastes and forays are deeply pretentious, she thinks that Umberto Eco is a nature-friendly brand. What she lacks, he unhinges upon me greater lack, erring at the edge of safe.
In his terms, I am loveless when I love him, a lover when I love her. And because she is wordless, she could be anything.