The Tiniest

The tiniest supermodels wear jumpsuits, made of the cut apart fingers of gloves, with matching underwear the size of a single eye-patch; the thin, telescopically photogenic people seem to come equipped with matching, mite-sized imaginations that can't conceive of an ample waistline, an over-flowing bosom or even Grandmother's boundlessly comforting lap of childhood. You can watch them daintily nibble on their carrot-tops with a side of a few acorns espousing their minute, restricted opinions with much hand waving and gesticulations to burn off a few extra units of food energy. Why do spacious minds seem to occupy larger sized bodies; and of such generosity they'd cook you an entire vat of lasagna just to enjoy an unrestrained hour of your company; but I can feel myself slowly starving to death by the mouse sized nibbles of intellect, of the slender, with their caloric phobias; of inhaling even too much sun. I can't accommodate their agoraphobic minds even within my own surplus cells; surely they secrete all their expansive thoughts inside a small clutch made of springiest spandex; so slimly invisible you can't see it inside their pocket at all, whenever they happen to turn sideways. So painfully thin, they have no reflection anymore, and can no longer cast a shadow; they are only a rumor, circling around in the exhaust above a dry cleaner's shop; the eggless meringue, atop a wafer-thin slice of jellied water- watercress not allowed. When they are cremated, there is no smoke and no ashes left over; only a thin, black soot which reeks, ever so slightly of burnt chocolate bon-bons.