language is never the ladle of love.
what you hear is yourself,
sipping to your own delight.
what is offered to you
has a handle of intent
and a scoop of their self, invested.
what is in that scoop
is the pouring of their tone.
sip that tone
to taste before swallowing.
it's your pleasure you feel
that you are feasting on
in the presence of
what is being offered.
subtle mutual exclusivity
is lost in this richness
of potentially common expectations.
but we privately and secretly agreed
to call it love,
before language became
the summoning of we,
each to the other . . .
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