from Letters I Never Sent to You
All Rights Reserved
I shouldn’t tell you this, babe, but she started eating herself again.
I think I’ll have to let her die.
Someone told me a lusty story; I thought of you and the way
you stretch time into a thin line between super unrealities.
I’m still telling those stories of you and me... they change
as I change my mind, but isn’t that part of the art of storytelling?
I’m still working on a method to conflate the tales of you and me yet
keep the personal considerations obscurant and not lose reader interest.
Remember that time we had to tunnel through successive ruinations of
our nightly plans. I wanted to cry. How do I diminish the distance
between us now?
I’m painting with a sense of calm these days, without the bloodletting,
and with that stability of painting people whom I’m showing as
morally sound, people with multifaceted lives. Their stories have
solvable problems to tell.
I’m still afraid of that word. Yes, that one: goodbye. So, I won’t say it.
It may be an alteration of G-d be with ye, but it’s also a conclusion.
I don’t want us to conclude, so I’ll end with All My Love.