If you’re dying to know a secret—I’m not one to gossip, but if you’ll listen I’ll tell ya—I hate that picture.

I’m sure you’ve all seen it, esp those who keep themselves abreast of all the Ken and RomiE trivia there is—bouncing from blog to blog—flipping from mine to his and, initially, vice versa. If you’re itching to know something about Ken, Mister Brown’s “estranged” other half—Ken hates that picture! I mean really…?—Look at it! Of course RomiE is as fine a brown as any boy can aspire; but me?—I look like a fag! Which doesn’t really say much provided that I am quite the homosexual, and though a gurL mustn’t be made to reveal all her secrets, that picture is quite the blabber-mouth.

But sure… I love ‘em.

When he first posted the picture I immediately went into objections, Please, I asked him, take it down, its ugly. When he saved it as the backdrop for his desktop, I again obejected, please, I asked him, take it down, YeRomiE, its ugly. But because his head is so full of meat (which is a running joke between RomiE and I about how, when he wears caps, he can never quite reason his head underneath the hat) he clearly refused on both accounts.

As of today they stand as monuments in place of, in remembrance for, what “was” and the possibilities thereafter, the pictures on his blog and desktop. And however no one’s gathered enough nerve to call Jerome out on it and say: Hey, Mister Baby, I know you’re mourning over what you “think” has ended, but that picture, Jerome, is bogus! Please take it down, I understand that it’s more my responsibility than anyone else’s and since I can’t fathom denying him what he feels is so pretty, I now advocate that he keep them up.

I salute you, even, by posting the picture myself. Hoorah!

I don’t think it’s over. What I think is that you’re concerned about me riding off into the sun with some large man with chocolate nipples and you wanna make sure that doesn’t happen during your lifetime. So by “getting your man back”, which infers that you lost him, you can prevent me from leaving. What I’m needing to stress is that I’m not going anywhere, baby. You haven’t “lost” me. That picture?—the one that I hate so much, is tolerable because I know we’ll be around to take better. Rushing into something that we’ve, primarily, you’ve insisted couldn’t work, or isn’t working, twice, is risking another high altitude of hopes for crushing a third time. I love you Jerome. Love doesn’t die after divorce nor does it “accelerate” after marriage. I would like to take my time with you, is what I’m thinking. I would like for you to take your time with me. We’re both scrambling to figure this out and finding nothing for the solution. But if I’m to honestly listen to myself, the advice my head’s been feeding me, and the promise I made to myself to listen to that advice, I’m thinking we deserve time.