loved his words. His words didn’t just move; they were break dancers on the hot sidewalks of New York. They didn’t just sing; they were street musicians in the tunnels of the Paris Metro. His words were gymnasts executing breathtaking routines; they spiked their dismounts with a precision that gave me the chills.

He loved my words back. Through some incredible chance, we found we each held a separate dictionary, the words of one craving the words of the other. It was far beyond a sexual urgency. When our words got together they did the tango.

Our words were instantly intoxicated on each other. The second day we exchanged about thirty emails. We were up to a hundred a day within the first week.

Long before we even spoke, our words were making love to each other in long sensuous strokes, reveling in languid afternoons. They would take occasional breaks and then crawl back in for more. If language was heroin, our words would’ve been found six weeks later in some Hell’s Kitchen backroom, intertwined, with the needles still stuck in their arms.