Tanim says I love you without words; he knows the man he loves doesn’t want to hear it. Instead, he says it with a cup of coffee, black, no sugar. He says it with a proffered cigarette. He says it with arms that know when to hold – and, more importantly, when to let go. He says it in the way he waits out the storm. He says it with his mouth, hot and eager, and in the way he so willingly surrenders. He says it with broken glass and used needles. He says it with his anger, his fear, his possessiveness; he says it with his misery, his patience, his longing. He says it in the way he asks nothing of his companion and yet offers everything. Tanim says I love you with every moment he allows love to bleed him, and with every day that he watches the thing he loves fade.

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