She never did know one might be capable of feeling like this.
No, she begins, it's not like, I-feel-a lot-for-you sort of a thing.
She pauses, pencil hovering over the yellowed pages of her leather bound book,
turning her thoughts over in her head.
It's more like, she tears her eyes away from the collection of words she's pieced together, choosing instead to focus on a random spot on the wall.
It's more like-
Like I feel for you in such an immense, collected way. It's not a whole mass of feeling hitting me like a tidal wave,
splashing itself over anyone standing too close. It's not like that at all.
She pauses again, briefly this time. Picking words with deliberation; Being sure that what she has to say is more than just streams of consciousness, more than a tangle of feelings left to sort itself out.
What I feel for you, it's all that's collected in the beaker at the end of the distillation process. Concentrated, and in its purest form.
I'm not overwhelmed by these feelings; I'm overwhelmed by the much-ness of it,
The immensity of it. Just the immensity of it.
Like if I were a flannel cloth, I'd be soaked with it.
Saturated, if I might use that word.
Or a glass bottle, corked, ordinary looking and sitting on a shelf.
Containing, within itself, such a concentrated, undiluted liquid,
That surely, oh surely it might burn
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