There is the relational and the absolute.
The relational is what makes me cry when I’m five beers, or three cocktails, or three beers-and a shot, or two beers-a cocktail and-a shot deep into a night. It’s the inner voice that tells me you’re going to leave me when you stop being hypnotized by my hips, when my coy games stop intriguing and amusing you, and they become yet another crease in your brow. The relational is all the questions that start in my soul but cannot be translated even though I wish with all my being to ask them of you. It is the secret mysteries of the world that I can never find the words to express but I know must somehow be able to be released from inside of me.
The absolute is when you hold me. It’s your hand in mine on the sidewalk, even though I know you dislike that kind of trivial public affection. It’s silence between us. It’s the shared cup of coffee in the morning. It’s the five feet between us when we are at a bar with our friends and we have been kept in separate conversations all night. It’s reaching for you at 2 am when we are both having a restless night. I feel your movement through space at each infinite number of finite points. It’s how I knew you loved me months before you did.
You well may be the axiom of my life. And I am a weak student, cramming before class discussion, trying to make sense of your dense text.