There is always some other story. I see you curled around your guitar and there is a story somewhere, behind the things we assume to know about each other. You are the stranger to me. I am the stranger to you. We keep an image of each other in our heads but it is never the whole truth. I like the you that I keep. You like the me. This is enough for both of us. We live our lives separately and invisibly. We say we love.
At night we roll away from each other and curl our arms up and hug nothing, very tightly.
This is the way we keep love for the longest time. This is the way we mind each other without becoming disappointed. This is love and I am comfortable with that.