tales of a girl in the city

février 22, 2006

I cannot love you in a small way. Having tried to carve it down to a palatable size, to pair it into only what is essential, I conclude that there is no option but to leave it as it is, grandly unwanted, and awkwardly looming. A misplaced giant, with its feet in a field of tiny bluebells.

This love I have cannot tiptoe. Cannot sprinkle or speck or drizzle. It can only stomp. Can only flood. Can only lumber around and bellow noisily in large deep syllables, like "AWWH" and "UGH." If it were invited at all (and it isn't!) it would be kicked out of parties. It would slosh its soup and gulp down whiskey until it climbed on top of the piano and frightened the cat. It would have a terrible face, with an enormous long nose, and nothing could be done with its cowlick.

My love does not have a green thumb. It swears in church. It loses at cards and stinks at puzzles. Its handwriting is huge and unwieldy--it is lucky to get one letter per page.