In the morning we lay in my bed bonelessly entwined, breathing each other’s breath as we talked in that inaniloquent way of lovers. You laughed when I told you how Maria had called the snowdrifts pressing against the windows snow elephants. These were the incidentals we turned into treasure chests, the words in which we stowed the meaning of moments. Codes to hint at what words could never describe so that we could relive the fulsomeness in mixed company, hidden in plain sight. This is what the peculiar language of inside jokes is about, and together we perfected it.