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False Valentine, I Wrote You This Last Year in Letter-Form
I abstain from poetry, I try. For you, a formal constraint: handcuffs? Plain text is a new way to beg inside them, a please and I do, I have eschewed earnestness for articles of no consequence, gif of the diva donning sunglasses, fifty new shades of how-to-say-what-I-feel-without-ever-saying-it, dick pics and see, my speech does swagger more sibilantly from our banter— faggier, vivid. I’m continually knocked-out by your eyelashes and your wit, in that order. My favorite position, when you held me, my back to your chest like a child. We did this—only once? Memory is deciduous. Last season already blown away. The storm confused our reasons for being wet, it was the surf but also the day-ruining clouds, their drizzle. At this distance, I thought I’d still be hanging onto your slim hips, but what I remember most is the book I opened but couldn’t read, my persistent squinting, the gesture of your hand flipping the light switch, a casual fathering. Another helicopter down in Hawaii, you write. Cats, the movie, is a car wreck worth rubbernecking. No real crisis except the Astroglide exploded in your suitcase, Cupid interrupted, made distractible inside the plangent grid. O fuckbuddy, my biggest minor love. O winter where I am restless and reach for my phone and I did, I do sometimes wish for an always so please, please always fill my February with reports of your terrier, your expendable lols, a few fond portraits of disaster. |
