There are things to say. Corinne, it’s not that I can’t see myself without you, it’s that I can’t even remember seeing anything before you. You are my vision, just as you are my fingertips, and the smell of the bread from Hungry Ghost. Just as you are Motown night at The Basement, so you are also Rafiki, brandishing your cane, cackling moon beams at the sky. You are the moon, you are walking the bottom of the sea. Saturday mornings, tights in the fall, Shirley Temple’s curls, the nose on every puppy. Roses, daffodils, daisies. It isn’t love, I swear to you. It’s everything and nothing, me standing here, and us not moving at all. It’s being there. Existence… you.