A tilted downwards pony-tailed face reads no words. She
doesn't know how much I love her.
She doesn't understand why I strain to feel her kitten palms
and lack of claws, her inability to hurt. I feel ill. I may
be twisted enough to squeeze her tight enough just to feel
close and hear her scream. I'm not. She doesn't know how her
gentle presence makes me as pure as I never can truly be. Oh
my god; I am so utterly disgusting. I might treat her the
way you would irritate a kitten, anticipating its response
in awe, studying its inhuman existence and utterly human
response. I'll never be like that. I'll be that sensitive,
emasculated, funny, but very conscious little me they all
love so dearly.

I can't feel my lips on her skin. I know. Her claw skates
along a wooden study table. She's furniture. She's god, in
more than way. She's angelic, but that's just the softcore
interpretation. She is so much more than that. She doesn't
know. It is unlikely she will ever know.
My mind trails.

A woman is a peach. She's ripe. And there is no pith, there
is no sweet outline, or divinely created fluid. There is
only existence understandable. I've always known that. I was
taught so little and knew so much beauty. And I will never
be able to hug her whole. Not in tears, not in vain, not in
shoulder, never in lust, not even in pain. Not even in
knowing her; she would never let me know her. I will fade
before knowing her. I won't be strong enough; it is even
more painfully obvious to me now.

Smiles, again. Why did god, or fates, or whatever other
irrelevancy to my life hadn't made her bigger, or smaller,
or less infinite, or at least my height so that I could hug
her without feeling embarrassed?

She reads some words. And I've lost all hope. And I won't be
raw. I won't be kissed. I'll be sweet and caring, and good
ol', and understanding, and all but loved. So many of them.
so many. Fond but not in love will haunt me until I'm eighty
years old and then irony will strike me dead. And then I'll
say. "But she was so beautiful, and I was so in-love, and
she graced me with unearthly smiles where-ever I stood." And
we both share the same passive innocence, I like to tell
myself. We've both never been kissed. I won't be there for
her kiss. I simple won't be there. Even if she will; I
won't. I'll be here, and there, and with my friends, or
inside my computer, and outside along the lines of boredom,
and I'll be lonely and uninteresting. And she'll probably
have a family, children, some grounds, and she'll go on
being glorious. She'll continue demeaning the foundations of
earth by simply being. She'll continue being the greatest
woman I've ever known. Surely a part of her will stay
sixteen years old. Surely she'll remain a kitten. Maybe I'll
give up women. Then I'll give up men. Then I'll give up
food. Then we'll see where it turns, and I wonder where
she'll be then. Pregnant, I bet. A face would form in her
womb, just the way she said it, with beautiful awe
enveloping that small face, as she dwelled on that
particularly beautiful suggestion.  And it won't be my
child. She'll remember me. She is such a mundane angel. And
I. I can know nothing of this earth.

She'll never understand. She isn't just a beautiful person.
There is always newborn beauty with her as she goes along.
Every single second, recreating itself, it won't leave her.
Every time she breathes, and oxygen dispatches throughout
her body, every single particle in her being transmits
beauty. I cannot expect her to understand that. She, and I,
are both a little bit too sixteen year old.