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art by Melissa Mead
Love Is Orange, Love Is Red
by Eric James Stone
You don't say "I love you" anymore.
Neither do I.
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We had only been dating two months the first time you told me you loved me. "I love you, too," I said.
Of course, that was long before the empathy virus, so you hugged me tighter and believed.
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You love me with a waterfall of emotion, churning bright white in the sunlight as it roars down from a dizzying height, scattering rainbows everywhere.
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Maybe things would be different if you had come down with the virus first. I woke up feeling better after a good dose of Nyquil the night before, and I marveled as I lay in bed beside you, feeling for the first time the powerful emotions surging inside you, awed that anyone could feel so much for me. I told you how wonderful that was.
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I love you with a deep blue river of emotion, slow and steady as it flows gently to the sea.
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The morning after you got sick, you woke up and looked into my heart expecting to find a waterfall, the mirror image of what you felt for me.