I keep all the notes. Little scraps you pass to me, like a wannabe truent. Speaking our secret language. And speaking it fluent.
There is a book of them. Over flowing. Taken one by one, they seem a jest. But together a binding that would pass any Turing test.
An uncrackable enigma, us two. It’s okay if they don’t see who’s who. Because I do. So, happy birthday to you.