©The Wind Scratching My Window Reminds Me
from Letters I Never Sent to You
All Rights Reserved
She took the horse sailing again. Well, the three-year-old has horse panic attacks every time he gets near a plane.
I pressed one of the flowers, from the bouquet you sent, between the pages of a large book the way you used to press my body into anything that resembled an ocean of sheets.
The flowers are so beautifully pastel, so fresh, so recently cut, they remind me of how moonlight lit your face and stuck like pollen, or like an ocean being beached.
I wonder, do you plunge your face through that sun-deprived skin to search for lost intentions or have you abandoned them, one and all?
The rain began falling just now. It’s welcome and if I were younger, I would go outside and dance in the desert heat-blistered white drops. Instead, I’m where I prefer to be as I write another letter I will never send, lounging on my chaise as deliriously happy as Cleopatra on her barge and sending you all the love she freely and openly gave to Mark Anthony.
As always, I end with All My Love.