Excerpt: Letters I'll Never Send

So here's a brief excerpt from a novel I'm working on. It's epecially meaningful to me in the wake of yesterday.

Do you remember when we sat in the park, with the jazz playing off behind the fences, and our little bottles of sparkling juice that the cops thought were wine? We ate pasta and talked around each other because we both knew what we wanted to say, both pursed our lips to keep back the nervousness of feeling it. I told you I wanted to tell you something. You pressed me all night, prodded, though we both knew what I was hiding. Still, we never acknowledged it, even in the train station foyer where your blue eyes and mine held the same point in space and you told me the words that are magical to hear and cannot be written. There is no way to translate that sound to a page. They’re too small. Eight letters can hardly take up a half inch of print, when they should be encapsulating a multiplicity of worlds seen and invented. Eight letters can only be stark in a way that emotion never should be.