that time's been too short,
that, relative to your...existence,
you've known her only for seconds of hours,
and, so, you believe
that to tell her you love her
would be too much, too soon.
But, these seconds--right now--
you seem not to realize,
these seconds are mature,
experienced, learn'ed, and tested...
these seconds have seen some shit, man--
shit that those youthful, timid, uncertain
fledgling seconds, to which you compare all time,
could never have known.
These seconds are honed--made sharp
on the practice of your ego's brand-new, awkward gait.
And, the subsequent scars of scraped knees and scraped palms,
and (if you remember that one time)
your ego's bruised chin, beg the question:
How much more time do you need?
It's time to dance, motherfucker--
finding another person who likes
"things that don't suck," and
who'll love you for your body
and your mind,
and who will have the decency
never to tell you which, at the moment,
she loves more,
is a rare, rare thing.
So.
Love her, you asshole. Love her.
