Your language is what is missing in me, that tantalizing body of knowledge which I do not have, which keeps me from what it is that I want. Namely, you. Namely, intimacy. Namely, the other, and the impossible merging of my self with theirs. That which prevents whole, unadulterated attachment is no more than language - or so we tell ourselves. Ultimately, it is this lack in us upon which we fixate. ‘Who is the real subject of most love poems? Not the beloved. It is that hole.’