 The 13th century poet, Rumi, acknowledged in a poem about love “though the pen wanted badly to write when it came to Love, its nib split apart…In the end only Love could explain itself and what it is to be a lover.” As I attempt to explain my love for Bob by tapping patterns of consonants and vowels on a keyboard, Rumi’s words resonate with my feelings of inadequacy. I simply adored the man.
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