The lovely (blank)

Hip and little, a tawny tribble without a bib, I was friends with a squid, we swam amid liquid and froth, underwater moths seeking light underneath the frozen wastes of hoth, circumnavigating alien worlds and every time I heard her name I twirled, what squirrelishness and coquettishness, fool I was, lame, foolish games for broken hearts, tired of subduing beauty via art (to be appreciated only by impotent old aesthetic farts). She had a smile that shattered the pretense of museums; galleryisms wilted with her gaze, exhibition galas folded after one or two days; to a man she was a maze, a labyrinth for days twisting inside myself, to gather nerve, debating bluntness versus stealth, and would romance flower sooner - or, keep it waiting on the shelf? I knew her name years in advance, was given notice of her coming - but was I prepared; materializing here, out of air, could I forestall that jaw-dropped stare? No no friends, I was squashed in midair, flattened by her fair, sputtering all my rockets, left bare, no weapons, no words, bare-faced and barely speaking, butterflies floating nausea as she beamed upon my hall and graced my overgrown buffoonish ears with her spare voice and left me wishing I had gall, to reconnoitre, to take in all her figures, to figure her out, to take her hand and steal her digits, to ask her out, to actually make that call...

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