Dear Love(s), I know you are hurt. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be writing this. It is painful not to be loved back. I don’t even love myself. I am lying in bed drinking in your smell, my nose laments on the scents it is unfamiliar with — lavender; jasmine; and patchouli, earthy and musky smell, sweet yet smoky, a balance of sweetness and romance. It’s barely two hours since we made love. I took you to the stage. I kissed you amid calls by touts to board their matatu. I watched you settle in, and the matatu leave. I got back to my apartment. It smelled like you. I stripped off my clothes and got under the covers. I am sleeping in your scent. I am making love to you now, more passionate than when you were here with me. In my fantasies, you’re a goddess. It feels too real, hands on my skin, a hungry mouth, the warmth between your legs. In my isolation, I love you the most. Not when I am with you. I don’t touch you when we sleep, even when awake, and no cuddling. Only when we