XXIX

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.