No better title yet besides: The Midget and His Love

He was very small.
Not so small that he could fit between the shoulder blades of any creature, but small enough.

He saw her walking down the street, a carrot limply stationed in her mouth. She walked so as to look purposeful (this was unintentional), but yet she appeared to be lost in thought. The carrot stood as a symbol of the impenetrability of the matter she pondered, so enigmatically poised between her somewhat slack lips. They held the carrot just so tightly that it wold not fall. He thought he loved her, in a voyeuristic way. Sometimes he lived above her medicine cabinet, unnoticed, of course.

The way he moves his hand in gesture makes me feel warm.
His voice, pregnant with savoury missives, caresses my outer ear.
I most love the way that he doesn't love me.
I shall not pursue, I shall only be a haven for he that cannot help but come willingly.
When he touched my leg yesterday, I had no being but for that section of skin. Other realms of my body trembled to remind me of their continued existance, but their proclamations sounded trivial against the roar of his stroke.

I have had better lovers, but none that move me so.

What I love most...
is his voice.
It posesses a purity that extends to all other parts of his being, making the whole nearly holy, or at the very least, permissable.
I would not say I love him. Rather, I see a potential for an enjoyable mutual existance, which could very well evolve to become love. He does not.
He shall become the angel of my nights, a sacrament that I am rarely capable of receiving. I shall yearn for him, attended by a bittersweet melody more flavourable than the finest chocolate. I shall become as a delicate melon ball cleansed by such a luxuriant fondue.
He shall never be mine, and for this I admire him more.

I love to watch his lanky, yet muscular limbs, at rest or in motion. The perfection expressed in his features bespeaks an impenetrable mystery that will reflect the same in the consideration of our lives spent together.

He reminds me of my capacity to love, even if I shall not exercise it. This is not unlike the unexpected spasm of a muscle one had long forgotten one still had.

At this, the carrot lost its standing and landed on the sidewalk.
"I wish I were that carrot," he thought to himself.

Home again, in bed, she dreams herself to sleep with a vision of the doctor lodged securely between her legs. Her negligible admirer sets forth from his place of little priviledge above her sink, and settles comfortably in the space between her shoulder blades. He peacefully drifts off to sleep, just wishing to be dropped.

Cease your rooting around for more torrid tales! Hear ye of the evil potato named Wiggy!

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