By accident, believe me, I found your diary. It opened of itself in my death-by-knowledge hands. I looked out the innocent window but the reflection in the glass was overpoweringly legible. I couldn’t shut my eyes (ophthalmologist’s orders) and the pages barged into my poorly defended consciousness. I never knew that you struggled too much more than I do with the placid beige we’ve painted the showroom walls of our long-toothed cohabitation. I never knew that you like me were dreaming of a splashy yellow wedding expense-be-damned- all-in-ceremony that our false, trendy tongues mocked to each other’s face. Oh God, I never knew that you, with all your anarchist tattoos were so traditional; that you were waiting for those hokey Hollywood words just as long as I have been longing for the genuflected proposal: “will you marry me?” Lord, what kind of couple are we when so much of our lives are written so secretly?