When I come home from shopping, I find him cutting up his beloved books. Because I love you, he says. The next time I leave the house, I leave my arms with him. One hand, mottled blue, writes on the wall, the other disobeys. Back from the store I find one arm has grown a body, all torso no legs no head. My beloved is already attached and cries as I shovel a hole in the backyard. It’s been a long time since I could sleep, even with my one good arm cleaning the house, I cannot be at ease. He can’t sleep either, he’s distraught, pasting his precious pages to a box—it’s my birthday. I’ve peeked—beneath the lid is a new tongue. It is not the one I lost. This one is more like a snake. At night I must keep it in a cage to stop it from wriggling into my mouth. Beloved passes me in bed with a bowl of food. In the other room I hear a sharp hiss, a clattering of bars. Then I love you, I love you, I love you, his soft, furred voice curling around it.