some notes on being an effusive personality:
Effusive: 1 expressing feelings of gratitude, pleasure, or approval in an unrestrained or heartfelt manner.
there are some things I would like to say to you. I’d like to say them to your face, but I know that you’ll just blush. Or you’ll change the subject. And although what I say is just straight from my Pillsbury Doughboy heart to yours, and it’s sugary sweet; it will feel as unwelcome as a cutting insult or derogatory slur.
What I’d like to say is that you’re beautiful.
And not in the base sense of the word.
My God, you are brilliant.
Light lingers on every strand of your strawberry hair.
You speak with such convictions. You speak them well, with such articulation!
I am not jealous, I am merely in awe. I am not like you in this, though I wish that I were, and perhaps you may call that envy, but I do not. I call it deep admiration. And yes, I hold you in the highest regard.
But not literally. I have not put you on a pedestal, because that is what Hebrews do, and you are not a golden calf. No, you are simply an effective scribe.
You are a talisman.
I keep you figuratively in my pocket. To call upon for hope, and for power.
In a binder full of women, in a desk full of sharpened pencils and thumb tacks that mercilessly poke and jeer at our soft, but strong trapper keeper’s covering; I look at you with a look of deep respect and camaraderie.
I don’t want to say, “get it girl,” because I know that you’ve already gotten it and you will continue to get it. You will be getting it everyday until the days run out, and I want to get it alongside you.
What I want to say is you’re clever. No one can craft a pun like you.
What I want to say is your punctuation is flawless. Your grammar is sexy. Your sentence structure impeccable. Your voice is unwavering.
You are doing so much, and you will continue to, I am sure.
What I want to say, I cannot say— because I throw my whole heart into everything, and for some, that is too much heart. But my heart is my truth— my downfall and my virtue. If you know that I think you are fabulous, is it so bad?
I don’t want to be your best friend. I don’t expect to cry on your shoulder, though if you let me, I might.
I just want to read and to write, and to wink at you always in that way that says, you damn, clever girl. My heart’s all a flutter in a way because of you. You are every woman I love. I am running through fields holding your hands and validating you. I am riding horses bareback and I am respecting the shit out of you. I want to write your Google, Amazon, Yelp, Barnes & Noble reviews— 5 stars. I would read you again and again.
What I want to say is you are magnificent: which really only means very good; excellent. Or impressively beautiful, elaborate, or extravagant; striking. But—Ugh— you are so much more. What I want to say is that you would know the word that surpasses magnificent. You are probably thinking it to yourself right now, and I love you for it.
You are sassy.
You are spunk and a one-way flight to Hong Kong.
You are Satan’s panties and a ring of fire to dance through.
You are a tongue twister, a provocative dreidel.
You seem to have fewer mooshgoblin tendencies than I do. You are succinct whereas I am long. You are a punch. A flash of red satin, a lipstick stained collar. A vixen lingered long enough only to taunt and draw interest, but then you are gone.
I am at the bar til last call. I am swaying like a fairy—smiling just what I feel, cooing, “tell me a story.” meaning just what I say. Not capable of a single artifice.
That heart will kill me someday.
You with your quick snap.
Your charm drips from every syllable.
I am not you.
But I adore you.
I will be your sidekick. I will try to keep in just how lovely I find you; but my God, you are brilliant.
I want to cover you in glitter and stare at your face.
I want to eat cucumber sandwiches and sip on tea and nosh on crumpets. With you.