She writes, then signs off with an initial, as if her being, and her love, were thin, not the promise of a feast but more like the smell of a deep-fried donut when there’s a rumble in the belly. I know the feeling, how one can get tired of dragging I around, how you want to shrink it until it just goes poof, away.
But it’s hard to do. There it is like a splinter in the pad of your thumb that with every touch reasserts itself. As for luv, it’s the tweezers, but it’s usually too big or too small.