Your kind of line, love, would not have itself so ceremoniously strung through thought and pause; it would, instead. be gone before so noticed, a whisper at dawn, a lash and brow, a sleeve of yesterday's most simple need. And yet, I'm sure you realize that in time it would incline of its own weight, as anything long hidden, toward this otherwise unexpected display, this blush and blurt, this "I love you" . . . this one atypical movement of hand and heart.