I love Sophia
And Sophia loves me.
We are excellent lovers; elegantly erotic lovers.
In such sublime affinity that our intimacy can only be imagined.

After satiation our delight is immeasurable,
our joy amaranthine.
We lie in each other’s arms, warm and glistening
and bedazzled by the perfectness.

It is not always placid, sometimes I spark, then smolder,
then burst into flame.
Usually about something silly, usually about something that has not a whit to do with why or what; never about how much love we have for each other.

It could be because of the Snoots.
The Snoots combine missionary zeal
and near-neural faith in their beliefs' importance,
adding only a curmudgeonly hell-in-a-handbasket despair
for the unwashed,
for the uninformed,
for the unknowing.

I initially despised them;
I now respect them, I really do.
They have loved Sophia far longer than I.
They have witnessed Sophia’s brilliance,
complexity,
evolution,
courage,
fierceness.

They, like I, have tried,
each in their own way,
to understand Sophia; to interpret every nuance.
In vain.
I understand that, too.
I can think of nothing else.
Sophia is in everything I see,
everything I think,
every sensation,
in each and every
conscious thought.

Sophia is so extraordinary,
so very special; arguably even an archetype:
calculable,
with a reasonable share of shadowing;
anima and animus in perfect balance and,
happily,
not at all hung up on
things in fours.


The Snoots, each signally,
consider Sophia their lover,
exclusively.
They have, in their own ways,
all been intimate with Sophia.
I understand that,
and am oddly not the slightest bit jealous.

It’s a polygamous sort of relationship,
and I’m ok with that,
and it’s so fucking strange
that I am ok with that.
I remember feeling the awful pain
when I found out I was betrayed by a lover.
I remember feeling resentment
that I could so easily be deceived.

I remember wishing,
more than anything,
that we were lovers still,
even while I cried in despair.
It was so sad; but this is not
an element of my love for Sophia.

I admit I was possessive and selfish
at first.
I used to worry it was some grand
rationalization,
and I should really be pissed
about all the attention the Snoots were giving Sophia
and even more pissed
about the obvious way it was returned in kind,
often in public.

But it was the Snoots who helped me understand.
It was the Snoots who showed me
that my love for Sophia wasn’t in vain,
or even vain.
The Snoots welcomed me to the club,
after a fashion,
for who better than they
could appreciate my love for Sophia.

I also admit,
for a while,
I lied to myself, I did,
telling myself that I was the most equal of equals,
that I was the favorite, that I was the One True Lover.

Being the One True Lover was comforting,
for a time,
and enabled me to overlook even the most blatant infidelities.
I naturally wanted Sophia to be mine alone.
I naturally wanted Sophia to never love anyone but me.
I have come to realize, though,
that loving Sophia is worthwhile
even if it’s not returned,
even if I’m not the One True Lover.

Sophia, you see, is rara avis.
And so,
I have stitched all our precious moments together,
into a life-quilt,
I can tuckle into,
when it’s cold,
when I feel alone.
It’s that kind of warmth;
it’s that kind of love.