Many lifeless afternoons we spent time carving out initials into baobab trees. We would pierce them with sticks, nails, and our fingers if we had to. We understood this was the way of the world. Love grew out of hurt. Different kinds of pain. Like how we came forth from the screams of our mothers. The foreclosure on her womb a symbol of love.

Today we would collect the sap of this tree and rub them against each other’s skin. We never spoke much. He in fact didn’t need to. He didn’t need the hearing aid with me. We were each other’s private rooms. The walls painted white splattered with the scarlet of our secrets. We didn’t need to reveal them or explain our pasts. We were comfortable just sitting there, in the mess of each other.

We constantly laid old blankets on the withering glass and just held hands. He would look at me with a wide toothed grin. Gestures could really be enough.


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