Hello? You there, sir! Have you fallen asleep in your chair?
I beseech you, wake to your work once more.
What now? Where will you send me; who will I meet?
I crave conflict. Oh, lift your pen!
You are a master of setting. My world is rich,
A humid place populated by man and bug with a taste for blood.
We get it…I live here, love here, dream here.
Send me a storm! Make me grow.
Are you drunk there? Lost and stoned? I hold no judgement.
A better drug, perhaps. I’ll be your heroine.
Take your vorpal sword in hand
And send brillig, slithy toves and I will be your beamish girl!
Where is my climax? Yes, bawdy sir, I’ll have my climax now!
Bard me a tempest of rising and falling waves;
Cast me away to a brave new world.
Villain! Oh villainy, slip out of the shadows and embrace me.
Do you love me still? Free me from this tower in your mind.
Pen me an O.Henry ending to my Dickens day.
Make me want to turn a new leaf.
Love me. Hate me. Ink me to your chest, your heart, the page.
I implore you, author me!
I don't know how I ended up down here at the bottom of memory lane, but I seem to have become lost. Will it really have been 5 years since you wrote this in just a few weeks? I still remember seeing it for the first time, pasted into our window, with your name before each line.
Oh, those nostalgic irc windows. I wax on about you, too. Love you.
On the lush lawn of St. Charles Avenue,
Braceleted by the streetcar line
Lay the slain and broken child,
New Orleans’ grim but true little boy blue.
Death granted but one mercy to the spent little one,
Shading his face from full view
With oleander leaves jeweled in dew,
One last kindness for her violated little son.
When the keening began, its pitch filled the sky
And the suited man fell to his knees,
Mourning the deal that would not be.
“Oh, inconvenient! Not in my front yard,” he cried.
Then all was chaos, tires, boots, and light.
Media headlined the stricken, weeping man,
Made him a soundbite and stuffed him in a can
To gorge the world upon commercial sites.
And profits soared,
The sad little package escorted off to fanfare
Never known in life, a mockery for death to bear.
Why did you have to say it? You remove all my choices when you do and I have to watch you drown in a sea of blue, an ocean of brass and bravado that crests above your gentle need and sucks you down into the whirling red and blue undertow. I still hold the crackers and devilled ham, my insufficient offering.
I shout impotently into the whir, "Meds! Depression! Puppy! Homeless!" and affect nothing. When the storm recedes and I hear my heart in my own ears, I roll your bicycle inside and rest it against the peanut butter, angry at anything that can rest. Angry at the half-eaten transient fare that has begun to wick grease up the sides of the bag.
And I absolutely cannot mourn. I will not feel this. You are nobody to me, because you will be back today. It won't be you, but there you'll be and I will look for anything to hold onto so that the tug I already feel at my feet will not be for me. I'll offer you up again. I will because I must, so don't you fucking say it.
You whisper my name softly in your sleep
And your little boy mouth bows up in smile.
The sheets twist and pleat across my left thigh
In a rakish Caravaggio modesty.
The hair that I kissed damply stains the pillow now and
I study the rise and fall of your chest with a focused intensity.
How many times have I rested my cheek there,
Enthralled by the miracle that is your steady heartbeat?
My hips ache under the weight and heat of your casually draped leg
And I don’t move as the ceiling fan struggles to push the heavy air.
My hope is stayed by your anchor of an arm that crushes me to you and
My eyes flick frequently to the hand curled like an eel beside my cheek.
I think of the day you walked on your hands for me as I hurried to class,
To make me laugh, to make me late, to make me linger there.
Now I choke on the desire to rest my cheek and hear your steady heartbeat
What augury is this min skald,
Your auspiced eyes of Iolite -
This twilight in my step?
I wept for you a snow egret
Full on the wing, a fletching flight
Into the gloaming depth.
What alchemy is this, min fyrste
This gilded stippling of the night,
The midnight sun’s gold breath?