I am in love with you; I must create.
I should knit something as useless as my love
And as colourful. Some dreadful garment
Uneven, too loose and too loud
In soft, crazy yarn that twists around the needles
And slips off when I least expect it.
The neck sags, one arm is longer than the other
A waste of time and energy, this love of mine
(A love that I can never wear in public)
But on cold nights I nestle deep inside it
And stroke its lumps, and count the dropped stitches.

Philippa Martyr

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