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.
What screws us up most in life is this picture we have in our heads of how it is suppose to be. What really happens is the one left behind is painted out of the picture even though that person is clearly equal and a collaborator.