Right now your true love is poised taut and nude in a teak chair reclined as best she can trying to catch the knitting needle in her toes where it fell beneath the table.

Your true love braces herself beneath the nickel-plated crossbar supporting ninety pounds of iron, trying to build up her back muscles which have never quite recovered from the fall off the bridge that wasn’t quite fall enough.

In the alley she stoops sifting through detritus and scum with painted nails where the fuzzed keychain she’s kept since first grade has dropped its leftmost googly eye.

Where do they find themselves on a Saturday night, these loves, truthfully loved? Whose couch and whose coffee table support their legs and feet respectively while the mystery novel lies open in their laps, prone and forgotten in the noise of the television announcing the winning numbers in a lottery for which she didn’t even purchase a ticket?

Who are these men with the correct couches and coffee tables to bear the weight of these segments of truth? And where can you find such furnishings, and once you do, how do you fit them into your efficiency apartment?

In three weeks and a day you will pass her by on the freeway going a combined 160 miles per hour in opposite directions. In three months and week you will check out the same library book she returned yesterday. In four years you will sit next to each other in a movie theater and as the credits roll, exit the row in opposite directions. And every night in between now and then you will dream of the backs of her knees and her french braid, always expecting in the next few seconds or less for her to turn around.

Writing is composing, as in music, but with no instruments or notes. Somehow you’re still expected to communicate a song.