She is a Showerer
You are tiny: the size of a thumbtack or at most the stem of an apple. You’re withering away either holding a nearly invisible piece of paper stuck to a wall in some office or keeping a nearly ripe apple attached to a branch. You find it hard to cope with such seemingly trivial and overwhelmingly passive endeavors. Yet you persist with the help of comfortable shoes and vicarious action. Your end, just like the fire that will burn down the office and the tree, is inevitable. Each day is measured in the dust that gathers on your heart, dust you desperately try to wash away with warm showers and wonderfully smelling soap.
It is those warm showers we share, figuratively of course. Although, I do believe that if we were to actually share those showers both of us might have an easier time keeping that dust off of our bones. You, however, will have none of that. Your attraction is governed by a criterion I can never meet. I lack this most significant detail and so in your eyes could never be a shower-buddy.
It falls on me, therefore, to deal with this most unfortunate desire. I don’t wish to attempt going down the Chasing Amy road as it seems to me that your feet are firmly planted on that side of the fence, and let us face it, I’m no Ben Affleck (his manly yet slightly feminine looks might get you to budge but mine certainly won’t.) This leaves me with one wretched choice: endure.
Despite it all, I’m glad to know that we share those showers, those showers we’ll never really share.
