Let me begin by saying that
I like you this way.
Far away and distinct from the people
who are all here - talking, eating, dancing,
complaining with me, alongside me, before I do,
after I do. Sometimes, the chaos that they engender
is something that I'd like to keep in box, wrap up with a red,
festive ribbon. I'd put it in a spot
where there is sunlight. All these
experiences, you understand, must grow into something.
Maybe a bilbao tree, all branches and high twigs that
I can't reach. Or it would be nice if it
sprung full force into a dark and jealous cloud.
But what I'd really like these things to be
are the shoes you use going to that factory you
used to write me about. They'd
clamber around your feet, forming a forcefield,
impenetrable but light as love.
I'm sorry if I have come across as too forward.
So let's talk about the
leaves that stay stubbornly on your doorstep.
They are picketting, you know. Complaining
about their existence. (But oh how I wish I were
one of them, lightly, lightly, hanging
on to your old, tight boots)
XXX, Sincerely.
No comments:
Post a Comment