Seeing a watermelon was my introduction to vastness.
I can only approximate
how much I love you:
by the handful,
as much as the sea
or not at all.
Approximations fail me
when I look at a watermelon.
How red it will be
how its meditative eyes would be arrayed inside.
You were stubborn in your insistence:
the earth is round as an orange.
You refused to accept
it could also be like a watermelon.
I lied to you
when I said I can tell you, approximately,
how much I love you.
All estimations are a failure of my language.
I need a few signs of exclamation
that will gently translate my failures.