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September 7, 2002
“Do you love me?”

You look through me with your gypsy eyes and your gypsy fingers speak to me through my hair.

“Do you love me even when I’m being crazy?”

You whisper wordlessly and I see in the whisper card-playing campers beneath the open California stars.

“Do you really, really love me?”

You touch your nun-pure hand to my temple and I smell the Atlantic coast mimicking the Oregon shore and hear the halo of a pink-clad angel in black jeans.

“You know I love you, too?”

You smile your baby duck smile and I taste its downy echo.