Post office blues
Dear B,
I write to you, even though I no longer have you. In fact, I believe--
Everything I have ever written was for you. My childhood diary entries, terrible teenage lyrics, deepest secrets and happiest dreams-- were all directed at an imaginary audience, some cloak of a reader, fuzzy and indecipherable--
Until I knew you.
When I wrote about love without experiencing it first, I was writing about you. When I wrote about desire, about want-- I was wanting, willing you into existence. I hesitate to call you my muse because instead of reshaping my work, you changed me. Fingers dipped in wetness to soften my edges; I know— I look different now.
I cant--
Write without thinking about you. It is so hard to write about someone that is no longer yours because all of my wants are tied to you. If you tugged at the strings, I would come unraveling-- only to rest, bare, at your feet. When I delve back into moments and pull them apart--
String by string to bask in them, it hurts to rewrite them no longer as moments with my lover but with the man I once loved and who loved me. I refuse to unpack all of these memories. I wish to store them for rainy days--
Like the one time the field flooded and the crowds were rushing away with the water, pushing and pushing. And you grabbed my wet hand, kissed me, and laughingly dashed with your hair. When I tripped, you came down with me-- left hand looped around my waist in the grass as the rain pelted us and washed us clean. My eyes were squeezed shut as if underwater, but I could feel your soft gaze. And you held my face in the field, warm hands on pale, cold skin.
My favorite rainy day.
And when we finally ran for cover, you took off your shirt to shield me from the storm and I laughed-- soaked through, at the pointlessness of etiquette in a flash flood.
And when the door closed, you took off my shirt to shield me from death by mid-semester pneumonia-- you peeled the translucent material clinging to my waist, warm hands on pale, cold skin.
and when my lips trembled you kissed them until everything was still.
I’m still here, unmoving, waiting--
wanting, willing you to call.
N.Y. S.Engine Coffee, 2020
