“Why are there always so many spelling mistakes in those long quotes about love?” she asks, her nose scrunching up.
“I guess it’s hard to type when you’re in love,” I say, and look up from my book into her dark eyes. I want to add that it’s hard to breathe when you’re in love. And hard to walk in a straight line and hard to have just one drink when you’re alone and in love. Because every time I’ve been in love I’ve been alone.
“But proof-reading is really important,” she says, squirming in the mint green armchair by the window.
“Maybe it’s better not to proof-read love,” I say, and she rolls her eyes.
“You poets always say stuff like that.”
She’s right. But what matters more is what we poets don’t say. What we let out when we sigh is so much more than what we metamorphosize into words. What we scribble in our notebooks cannot compare to the marching storm clouds we hold back. I always hold back. Lightning is better as a low sizzle in the back of my throat. Never pouring out in mountains of light. That would mean too many words. With that much love, proof-reading would be hopeless.
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