It wasn't your gesture that you were describing when you spoke to me about her lifted blue dress, nor your anger when you described her mouth and teeth, nor the resistance of the flesh to the knife when you mentioned her weary eyelids, nor your nausea when you told of how her body fell to the rug, nor our sorrow when you thought of her pallor, nor your fear of the police when you outlined her ankles. You were talking of a great love.

my other shit.