I've never written your name in here, either your real name or the one you use in the world. Too bad, because I love your name. I love saying it aloud, I love the sound of it. I love that saying it makes me see your face, even when you're not here, and it reminds me how much I love this silly, wonderful party we have, where we're the guests of honor.
I think you were a coyote in a previous life. The Native Americans all said that Coyote was a holy trickster, who knew how to laugh at everything, but who never forgot that everything is sacred. And you're the holy chameleon who taught me how to laugh again, a skill I'd badly neglected.
And so I'll keep your name a secret, the way you asked me to. But whenever we're together, please don't be afraid to use my name. I love how it sounds on your lips, wether you're laughing, or sighing, or panting, or only murmuring it in your sleep while I hold you so close. It never sounded so good, or made me feel so whole, as it does when you say it.
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