(Author’s note: I started thinking about “words mean things,” and was paging through some other historical stuff, and ended up here.  Where here is, I am not sure.  But we will see.)

She said it to me, over and over, in more languages than either of us really had.  But we played at it, finding new words to use to say the same things.  You are beautiful.  I love you.  Words just foreign enough to be a little work, but close enough to our native tongues that we understood what was intended, immediately.

You are beautiful.  When we met, I was bald and reactionary and touchy and thought I knew a lot about being a dyke in a world that makes assumptions about what women are and what they want and need.  Now it’s years later, and I am bald (again), reactionary and touchy (still) and I think a lot less of what I think I know.  But I can still hear her voice, that first night.  You are beautiful.  I love that you dared.  May I?

And so we circled around each other, for months, and eventually came together.  Then apart, then together again, and now… Now we are somewhere very else.

But still.

You are beautiful.  Nothing changes that.