Cephalopod, Sweetly

There are plenty of things that I love and don't eat. But you're not one of them. You, you're an exception. As if the occasional hankerings were extensions of a divine and deeply rooted affection. As if your taste and texture were as vital to consider as your intelligence and beauty are in assessing your character, and only when weighed all together can one understand your meaning completely. They have everything to do with you as an idea, an object, a thing of beauty, a breathing thing, a skulking alien in a tidepool, an appetizer. As if wanting to swallow you down didn't invalidate my love, but proved it, was a dimension of it. As if not wanting to eat the other things I love were a sad testament to the slightly inferior quality of those other loves.