I have trouble with words, trouble with how I can pinpoint you exactly. You’re like smoke – not black, or grey or white – always billowing across unknown stretches of space and impossible to calculate. You’re undefined, and the indeterminacy of your being forces me to liken you, to some terribly ephemeral object: a kite, a tree, a ball, a blade of glass; the wind, the sun, celestial beings down to muscovado eyes.
Facing you, language is rendered meaningless and I make do with crucial adjectives and sloppy metaphors for the least of injustices. I have trouble with words and I let out a sigh of defeat after every poem, every verse that is supposed to capture your essence turns out to be a miserable representation that barely scratches the surface. But how do you fit the ocean in a bottle, how do you cup the sea? How do you keep something of such magnitude into a moment, a quaint fragment, a portion? The worst I could do is try. At best, I should keep mum, because silence is the only sign I am still bound to you.
“Love is a battle,” said Marie-Claude, still smiling. “And I plan to go on fighting. To the end.”
“Love is a battle?” said Franz. “Well, I don’t feel at all like fighting.” And he left.”