I know living with me is hard. And loving me even harder. Others see only from their distances and enhance my frame with their own desires creating a man to their liking. But you know closer. You know the stubbornness I have inherited from my father’s side, like a succession of breached baby boys whose collar bones had to be broken in order to gain the world we steeled ourselves early and have no tongue for pain. I thought this might improve over years. Maybe it has, a little. I suppose that’s why I write poems or whatever these things are called. I’ve thought at times you might leave and I would not blame you. There is too much blame in the world already, and it is so unbeautiful. But you still stay asking me daily in a thousand variations to point to the face on the pain scale and say. I say I love you, and we go on.