"Do you love me?"

Words whispered along a spine in the dark (please), through soap studs in the morning (yes, right there), into messy hair after dinner (come closer).

Seen in ink blots, and coffee stains, and toothpaste. Constantly lurking in the shadows like a threat too vague to fight, frightening simply for its bluntness.

Heard on the GCN, in the pop songs on the radio, on patient interview tapes, too loud to ignore.

"Do you love me?"

Echoing inside as well as out, all around, twisting, distorting, conforming, becoming a lie, becoming something equally blunt and permanent, like dropping a container on top of a chess board and exclaiming checkmate, becoming something so much worse.

Becoming smooth lies, becoming "of course" and "always" and passing right by, going full laps, becoming "please" and "come closer" again, becoming too much and not enough and just one big headache.

"Do you love me?"

Halfway out the door, tying shoelaces, with a condescending smirk.

And like sticking your head into a guillotine, like conquering Mount Everest, like dying; "god yes, I do."