needs me to say yes.  Quite the contrary.  She already has hers.
Twirling brown words flow through the pain of viscous brain.
"Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour."
I remember the car.  The street.  The night.  The words.  "You're not
acting like yourself."  What's myself?  Who is me?  Why
couldn't I have lived the life I was?  Why couldn't I
have told her the truth?  That I was so deeply in love,
so mesmerized by all that was her, that I could do no
more than pray at her alter.  Of course I acted
different!  Here was my Goddess, my kneeling honor.

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