My love is a question. It seeks answers of understanding, tolerance, interest, amiability... and initiative, bounded by consideration and careful wisdom.
My love is a question and the answers are multiform. They come in words and music, in images and touch... in action, or inaction.
My heart exalts when it is answered artfully. Some eyes reflect comprehension of the depth and tone and timidity of the question I'm asking. Some eyes, some hands, some lips... in some moments... answer me firmly, and my world is, for a moment, resolved.
Some times, eyes are averted, hands fidget, lips purse and strain, and the answer is feeble or flinches away. It is a symptom that love has become sick.
Some times it falls to me to cut through ambiguity and excuses, to stand broad and stolid and confront plaintive cries of "I don't know!" by answering the question for myself, and answering it, "No."
My heart staggers when I stand grim in the bloodiness of a question silenced; when I have at last taken some answer as final, and resolved to ask no more.
