02.05.08
Scraps of Paper
In leaning penmanship,
written at separate times,
for angels alike yet different,
from the drawer of letters meant to be unsent.
I.
To you who feels that dark is not so black, you must have known me believing that my lamenting was a lullaby for both of us. It brought us together, and I thank you for not abandoning me… but I have ceased sobbing, and no lullaby remains. How then shall we sleep? We had red, but reluctant as I am to forsake that, we are aware that other colours exist for us… and in the same way, we exist for other colours.
II.
To you, now demisemihusband of another.
I recently read you in a novel. The Art Lover described you as cerebral, exacting, lively, passionate… you were critical, cold at times, a little monstrous. Melancholy only on occasion. Intelligent. Your eyes traversed great distances of time and space. You had a genuine appreciation for life… but both to your advantage and disadvantage, you are also a Michelangelo sculpture. Glazed by rain, facing only where you think you must and turning your back on what you are oblivious of.
III.
To you who is to befall in my life, I shall know it is “you” when you solve three great mysteries. Because when you utter “I Love You,” you can make known to both of us what is “I,” what is “Love,” and what is “You.”
Now, where’s that trash bin?
