Don’t tell me you love her. She’s got three arms and a third left foot on the dance floor, blurring in and out of sight like a pulsating octopus. She will haunt the rest of your seas, fishing for compliments with kisses the suction power of the giant squid. You’ve got a catch that’s already hooked.
This is how thirsty she will be for attention, swallowing her pride like it’s sex on the beach. Forget whiskey, she’s got the entire relationship on the rocks. See the titanic and the iceberg was only an appetizer - she will crush on you so much harder. If she capsizes you, do not mistake the turbulence in her eyes for infatuated flatulence. After all, she has mastered flambuoyance, her lips sailing compliments beyond the horizon. She will ship it from anywhere, across the pacific ocean, just to call you marina
Bay, don’t tell me you love her. She’s not buying it, not even with currency stronger than the currents. By all accounts, it’s a dammed act of self preservation. Whoever cares more loses so save it. Wash, rinse, repeat, let the cycle gush in waves; she will recede when you need her most, and her wall of tears will reign when you least expect it. This whirlpool of emotions will one day implode, a big bang - she will never spill her thoughts even if you pick at the stars. A loan is what you need right now, so don’t bank your hopes and
tell me you love her. If you try, sweeping statements under the carpet, you forget that she is not your poem to pledge. Not your promise to make. She is bigger than being, and it’s a bit of a stretch to say she’s part of your world, split along the equator - hot as hell. God, have you seen her? I have, sinned. By your rules, she is unmeasurable, overflowing into space - even that vacuum she will fill, but even that vacuum she cannot fit.
There are black holes within, and they will eat her from the inside out the way she eats her own words. That is to say, skinny, because her conversations orbit the same few lines - “love you, love you too! Love you, love you too!”- a galaxy spinning inwards, collapsing on its own light. There is nothing attractive about the gravity of this situation. This is the face of a vulgar bore, committing crimes of passion rather than commitment - she is not subjected in her sentences. Not subjected to her sentences. That way there is more to speak and less to say.
It is safer that way. Trust me, I know. I know because I have tried loving her. I have tried looking at this mess like it matters. I have tried telling her I love her. But it is so hard and so trying and I don’t want to fight anymore. Please don’t make me fight for this.
How do you love someone who is too much and not enough? Never enough. Enough, like there’s a scale weighing down my worth. But I am out of proportions. I am bigger than being. I am too much to love, and too little to actually love.
If less is more, take the difference and keep the change. You can sell the sweet nothings if you want. I have no need for the constellations, the satellites in your eyes. The crescent of your smile. On the darkest of nights, it takes so much to sleep.
Don’t tell me, love, don’t tell me. Instead, in the quick quiet qualms of your conscience, whisper, “I think I might like you a little bit."