My love for you’s ungainly, dear:
It’s big and wet and sloppy,
Not tucked in at the corners
But all weird and loose and floppy.
It’s not a love that one can map
Or limit in its excess,
But rather leaks out everywhere,
Makes of itself a mess.
It started out all neat and fit:
It had some self-control
But grew to such dimensions that
It swallowed me up whole!
So now we’re old and have white hair,
And I limp down the stairs,
But still this love flies round the room
And sings and spits and swears.
I tried to tame it in past years,
But it would not be tamed.
Then quiet it with petting, please,
So it won’t get inflamed.
It isn’t the world’s neatest beast,
That I acknowledge freely,
But don’t try to escape it, Dear,
Our grip on you is steely!