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For One Thing.

I cannot be consumed by love.

I cannot fall in perfect step with you as we dodge pedestrians on the sidewalk. I am disappointed when you are unmoved by perfect prose. I sigh too loudly when you look away.

When we talk of the future, I see myself alone in a room with a typewriter looking at a glass vase on the windowsill as it tries to stem the wilt of a single gerber daisy. You are there, too -- idealized in metaphor. That is how I hope to love you, at least.

Besides, I've always believed that the thrill of sex does not come from yielding to the touch, but in the sting of release.

link * Miss Marisol posted at 7:00 PM * posted by Miss Marisol @ 7:00 PM   |