I love you.
I love you.
I let you drive my car.
I tell you I am thinking about shooting the neighbor.
I tell you I want to run away to a small town in North Dakota
and get a job as a waitress
in a greasy spoon joint.
You don’t mind my telling you all this.
I tell you my stomach hurts
and that I’m worried about a mole.
You love me.
You love me.
You tell me you are anxious
about an email
which might as well be written in Martian.
You are going to quit your job
and we will buy an apartment in Paris.
I massage your shoulders
and tell you not to eat so many blueberries.
You go out and buy me three cartons.
I love you.
I love you.
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