Dear friend, you are the Love Eaters,
you that do consume it.

That see the entry and exit of blood and breath, the coming and going of life and death as waste if performed in the absence of a lover’s face.

(From the start, were the spaces between our fingers set apart to make us crave the linger of a touch?)

As such, these finger-laces weaving through vast empty spaces, gripping tightly— can bound hands afford to tread so lightly in the undertow of loneliness?

But I digress.

They are cold, you say, my lonely nights: tumbling past blurring faces, beside untouched pillowcases. Spotless sinks and scorching drinks kept hot by lukewarm company, too cool for my uncertainty.

Well, shall I trade this for other warm things? Low-cadence “I love you” pressed into your thigh, skipped meals and skipped beats laid down at cold feet, stood high on the shards of a once-masterpiece?

This too is love, I think.

This dimming spark, rusted and impatient, as we grate against the edges of sandpaper conversations. Is this also warm? Shall I also burn? Cast aside my guiding oars and plunge down into gentle waves, turned jagged peaks and haggard weeks of misery and downpour days? To break, and break myself again, in order to delight in pain—

My friend, we are the Love Eaters,
we that by it are also consumed.