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I don’t usually write about love in the way I’m about to. I write about love in prose and well-timed wistful poems infused with distance and hindsight. I write about the problem with love and the throes of early love, less so of the moments when it fails me or I fail it. I consider this work to be too close to the problem.

This morning, I am thinking specifically about being the problem, which is why this piece is difficult to write.