(n) in·fi·del·i·ty /infiˈdelitē/* I have a place where I take the things that I want to say, but mustn't belt out loud. You told me that I wouldn't want the world to hear the things that scare me, only because you didn't want it to be used against me. I write down the things that aren't supposed to be in my head, only because you told me that I shouldn't be worrying about things that aren't worth it. Since the first day (middle of December, or something like that) you have been taking care of me even when I told you not to worry. You threw around kisses that carried a sort of incredible gravity. Gave out your signature on papers that also had mine. (Oh honey, you gave me the kind of love that I've seen on the television. What more could I want?) Although even the most sober entanglements ask: (Where are you?)