Zemblan Grammar

My Dear Beloved,

You are the world to me–your soft, pillowy nature lulls me into a comfort that few may ever know.  Each minute we spend togther is a dreamy, nebulous heaven floating above the pedestrian concerns of my afternoon.  Our rendez-vous–sometimes a heated, illicit post-lunch quickie, other times a lingering late-afternoon tea–are what keep me alive.

This is the way our love goes:  glasses askew, face smushed sideways into a sofa cushion, one leg dangling floorwards, General Hospital droning lowly in the background.  It is a connection removed from any pretense: insulated, pristinely distilled slumbrous wonder.

Yet still there are some who would try to keep us apart!  Never fear, my sweet, for I will die before I let this happen.  My feline roommate, jealous of the time we spend together, tries to wrench me from your tender embrace by creating loud noises throughout the apartment.  She knocks items off of shelves and counters, spills her water dish, claws great chunks out of the walls–but she will not stop me from loving you!  Well-meaning friends try to call me on the phone, attempting to distract me.  They just don’t understand, do they?  They don’t see how wholesome and pure our love really is.

I have become obsessed, they say, allowing my time with you to supersede all others.  You’re too old for me, they say, but you, Mrs. Nappington, are ageless.  Timeless.  You are the deep, primeval ursleep of the gods.  You are my first, my last, my everything.

Hoping to remain forever in a pillow-creaséd afterglow,