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.


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