m4dn3zz

What I miss most is not the sex but the moments that slipped quietly by like brushing our teeth together in matching pajamas, you turning to me and saying, pasty foam running down your chin,        “You know what love is?        Love is being stupid together.”

     There was a man at university, many years ago, who would come outside of the library with a book of poetry. I knew it was poetry because of the way he would pause, as if listening for his name being called, then return to scanning the well-worn pages. I got up the nerve one day to unseat myself from the counter at Starbucks and walk outside to inquire about the nature of his material.      "Hello," I said quietly, trying not to disturb him too much. He barely glanced up, however, and continued reading. "Who have you been studying for so long?"     This time he did pause, but only long enough to whisper, "Blake."     I