I swirl the words “I love you” around in my mouth like a cough drop, syrupy and bitter, I bite down hard on them until they crack up the sides, slice into my tongue and sting long after they’ve fully dissolved, I love you—I think, in my bedroom with the low hum of the AC, at the last stop on the subway, in the park behind my apartment with the dogs and the baseball field, in the restaurant with the breakfast burritos, while sitting on the floor of the bathroom as you take a shower, there are so many places I want you to know so many moments I want to wrap the words around, but I keep them to myself, for now.
7.30