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Whenever she asks if you are OK, you nod, mute, convincing her, trying to convince yourself. Then she asks you, are you sure? To be you is to apologize and often that apology comes in the form of suppression and that suppression is indiscriminate. Except here you must unfold your arms and from your chest say, you are tired. That you have had enough. That you want ­to – There are not words for what you want to do. You begin to choke and gulp for air as tears stream down your cheeks. Moan, low and stifled. You must explain. You must be heard. You think you are alone in this until you realize, she is with you too. You want to believe that her comfort can alleviate the situation but only if you allow yourself to be held. You do not need to apologize here. When she asks, are you OK, do not fear the truth. Besides, she knows before you speak. There’s no solace in the shade. Let yourself be heard and hear her words. Have faith. Suck at the snake’s bite, spit out the venom at your feet. Gaze at the fading scar but do not dwell. Do not hide but do not dwell. There’s no solace in the shade. Let yourself be heard and hear her words. Have faith.

Faith is turning off the light and trusting the other person will not murder you in your sleep. This is basic, audacious. Name your love. Name the sweet whispers exchanged in the darkness. Name the beauty of imagining your partner’s fluttering eyelids as she dreams in her waking moments. How beautiful is beauty? You can find her lips with your eyes closed. Nothing more durable than a feeling. Tell her you’re scared of being taken from her. Tell her what you struggle to tell yourself on some days. Tell her you love her and know what comes with these words. Describe the image of God in the darkness: the crooks of her long, slender limbs, catching light, even in the dark; features slack, eyes closed, lips turned up in a slight smile, cheeks pulling up with them, a small, pleasurable sigh slipping from her mouth every so often; the way her body tightens, loosens, tightens, loosens with every touch, every graze across the fine curve of her spine. Let her kiss the single tear. You don’t know why you’re crying. Sometimes, love aches. You’re not sad but bowled over. Crumpled like a car crash. Tell her a story. Remind her about that time:

The fever dream of an evening, your minds swollen with heat. You and she swing your hips this way and that, letting rum dribble from the lips of cups onto the basement floor. A friend croons melancholy from the stage but the joy is not lost. Guitars strum sweet like the cocktails in your hands. You are more than the sum of your traumas, you decide, introducing her to your friends, your rhythms so fluid, a double act to be reckoned with. This is my friend, you say, words neither of you believe. (But can multiple truths not exist? Is anything definitive? Do you believe in permanence?) Anyway, this night is a fever dream and you allow yourselves to be led down a long stretch of road with the promise of another basement at the end of it. Is anything definitive? No, because you both change your minds when you reach the club. The fever has begun to rack your bodies and you shake with hunger. You split away from the group, because fever protects, as madness does. Chicken shop, sterile lighting, she hands over a plastic note, you give thanks, you curl hand around bare curve of hip, and she leans in, back, kiss on cheek, a shade of purple she carefully applied earlier. Midnight meal in hand, down a street on which you met another poet many years ago. Another basement. The poet leaned close and told you to loosen up during the ­warm-­up act, so in no time you were in rhythm, fluid, an act to be reckoned with. Here, you sit on someone else’s front steps, and you decide you believe in permanence. This definitive arrives when your best friend breaks the hot silence, cool and measured. She tells you she loves you and now you know that you don’t have to be the sum of your traumas, that multiple truths exist, that you love her too.

Walt Dickerson wrote the piece ‘To My Queen’ for his wife. It’s slow and contemplative, and reaches into extreme, beautiful depths to render a union in all its colour.

You don’t have music, but you do have your way of seeing her. You do have a way of capturing her peaceful and energetic rhythm. You do have a way of portraying her joy.

You do have words.