Feminine Endings

We've worn out yet another Anno Domini. We're twelve months - if not wiser - surely older. You call it a relationship, this boulder which hangs about me like a Shi'ite's bomb, and he, at least, can choose his cut-off point. From shoulder to knee, I'm (still) more Goldie Hawn than Golda Meir, but we don't flow. We ooze. Like hominy grits, turgidly. But denser. Stodgier. Colder. Where once fizzed electricity, hums static. The best and worst of me is best termed "womanly" - irrational, irascible, erratic. I'm sure my verse is worse. Tot up each billable pretentious periphrastic polysyllable. But you? You're spenter, deader than Mitt Romney.