I cannot write anything that will do justice to what I feel about you. Empty shuttles of words weave round the wicker shell I twist and bend into shape, a draughty casket full of small gaps that cannot be forced or plugged with any matching or mismatching of the syllables I have at my disposal. Slow, dripping strands of silver droop down over the edge of your being, never sticking. Such beautiful and honeyed words I can ladle blindly onto your gracious head, smearing them across you in frustration; why may they never catch on the many delicate and savage wanderings of your skin, those which grate so pleasurably at my mind and catch upon the burr-hooks of my existence?
Perhaps it can be a pleasure, after all, to be so at a loss for words when I have so many. It is the beginning of a new adventure; stagnancy is in satisfaction, and I can no longer be sated while knowing that I am incapable of rendering more beautifully your exact and precise existence than has already been done in the flesh and giddy profusions of Spring and wild blossoms. I know now, in the failings of my own language, that I must consume sweet and treacle-like mouthfuls of foreign tongues in order to claw my way, slowly, closer to your centre and to an artful depiction your essence that will render you speechless and I content. Pablo, perhaps, could unfurl such a string of letters that would splash silver and bronze immortality across you in a way I could never imagine. I must pair every unlikely match together to find the one that fits even a tiny, gorgeous part of what you are, then start again till I have all the beautiful pieces of your delightful phonetic jigsaw.
Nothing I have tried to write before has had to be so perfect. Beautiful is barely good enough any more. I could write an entire collection on you and never write a sentence that I am happy with; you demand something of me, merely in existing, that I had never fretted over before and perhaps I thought I had already achieved. Always, always I am tormented by this incessant flitting of words around my cerebral cortex, a frustrating feeling of incompletion, constantly on the edge of some wonderful and blindingly pleasurable sentence that never comes to me. I would curse you if I did not so adore the challenge that you represent, for you have ruined words that were previously so delightful, as now I know that they fall short and cannot ever be beautiful enough. The standard is now beauty, the goal something far more mysterious and elusive. God, how it frustrates and intensely interests me._______________________________ By YouthfulParaphernalia.wordpress.com