My heart aches. It creaks and groans, like a rusted, obsolete, crumbling frigate fighting its way back to port, trying with all its might to stay above the waves. Oh! But it’s been buffeted by the jabbing torrents! Oh! But it’s charred by the powder of its cannons; it’s cracked and bruised by the missiles of other frigates! Oh! Oh! Oh! But though the waves bash its iron sides, though it smokes with fatigue, its mortar expended, though it lists to port, jagged and bleeding into the sea, it is undone but by a lose bolt. The acidic, putrid waters need only an initial trickle to drag the poor old boat into the bay. Its wrestled to the muck at the bottom, and fastened with mud and grime, never to rise, never to scale the crests again.
But why, oh why, my pretty, perfect love is I so morose? Why do I talk of drowning to you? Why do I feel as though I’ll sink into oblivion? I wish it was just a funk. I wish I could say that I’ve got indigestion. But its you. Its you.
You are the best socks a man could ask for. You’re woolishness caresses my feet like the masseuse of the gods. The clouds descend to the earth so that I might walk upon them when you are around my feet. Could there be a more contenting, marvelous, orgiastic feeling that to wear you? No there could not. That is why I am so lowly, angel socks!
You see, I’ve noticed a loose thread. It’s but a little strand, but you know as I know that this quickly becomes a small hole in the toe, until you will not exist. You’re decline and ultimate extinction is therefore inevitable.
What happened? I haven’t worn any other socks for years. How dedicated I am to you. I have walked gingerly, even in the lotus fields, even in Olympus, even when I float lazily across hills and valleys of tulips and lollipops and ice cream. I have caressed you as you have caressed me. No one would doubt my utter devotion to you, my supreme love of everything about you, so I don’t understand how this could happen! Has some demon come in the night through the window and cut you with a tiny scissor?
Or, is there another foot? I remember how you looked at me that day in June when I wore sandals to Emily’s barbecue. Remember how you pleaded with me? But, didn’t I tell you it was just too hot, that you should rest? That surely it would rain soon and we could glide across the puddles like little rubber duckies? Were you so jilted that you scurried away from our hole in the wall to some alluring piece of cheese? Was it worth the pain you’ve caused me? Was it worth your own demise? That’s all that’s come of it! You ran off, slipped onto some strangers’ feet, and maybe it was a snugger fit than mine, but there was no love in those feet. You held onto them out of desperation, out of jealousy, out of some primeval momentary hatred of me, but did those feet hold you back? Did every hair on them curl into your fibers until foot and sock ceased to be two separate entities? No, they were rough and stony, and now you’ve a thread lose. So I have to throw you in the garbage. I don’t want to watch you unravel before me! I couldn’t take it!
Don’t you dare think this is some excuse for me to find better socks; no socks are in your league. You had a monopoly on my feet, and now that you’re insolvent, the bench is broken. I will never wear socks again. How can I? After what I’ve let get away from me, what I’ve had to discard! I will wander the world with my soles exposed. The gnawing cold will chew on my toes; the fiery wind will burn them black; the leathery heat will peel my skin away, the broiling asphalt will scramble and bubble them. But every callous, every scratch, every cankerous pus filled wound on my feet will number only half that are on my heart.
Oh how I loved you! Still I love you, now and forever! So long my love! So long! Oh! Oh! Oh!