I love you, they say, you say, and I think, think hard—
What is I love you? What is "I love you"?
What is I hate you?—and then, "I hate you"?
And I think, some more—they tell me "I hate you," when it is I hate you. And it can be otherwise...can it not?
"I love you" is like I hate you, just as I love you is "I hate you." And I know "I hate you"—all along, it has been I hate you.
Sharp pain in the head. A hug, a sweet voice fills my ears. Filled. This was before. It was "I hate you" as I hate you, and sometimes "I love you" as I hate you. This was before, and it still is.
But this was someone else. Someone I coolly reply to—"I hate you," and have been doing so to, with the pain throbbing in my head. Metal jangling against it.
Here, I am faced with "I love you," and I don't know what it is—I love you, or I hate you? Because there is no pain, only the sky, and the sun floating gently in the sky. And the clouds wrap about it, and it is still like a little spot of God in the sky.
Because even on cloudy days, days of rain, of snow, there is a sun, and there is something, something expansive and reclined upside down, above us. It clings to above, above the above, and it is bright and gray and all the colors of what is, and I feel filled and deluded, because the clouds have opened a crack to more clouds, gray and bright and inviting.
And I think, yes, I believe you.
Because my face is sore and my throat is bruised inside, from joy, more joy, and I am unhurt, and I think that "I love you" is I love you, and I believe you. I believe you, and your "I love you."
Because it means I love you.