everything else

Whose face will the traces for her pomegranate lip balm rent?
Who’ll father her child?
Who’ll keep her warm?
Who’ll wrap their lean thigh around her hip?
Who’ll love her like clay?
Who’ll she leave the door unlocked for?
Who’ll she reveal her scars to?
Who’ll bear her wrath?
Who’ll nurture her ghost?
Who’ll replace you in that bathtub meant for two?
Who’ll carouse around town with her?
To return tumbling home and fall asleep while inside her.
Who’ll long for her warmth?
First thing in the morning and last thing at night.
Who’ll love her despite her irrationality?

Who’ll love you despite your irrationality?
Who’ll conform their needs to yours?
Who’ll look for you in the penumbra of words to forgotten songs?
Who’ll bake you a cake?
Who’ll whip the cream?
Who’ll read you like a book but keep you like a secret?
Who’ll think of you in the solstice?
Who’ll long for you in the equinox?
Who’ll discern the details of the other, darker, side of your character?
What will your paycheck, without her affection, look like?
Who’ll hanker for your ignorance?
Only to overlook it.
Who’ll memorize your insecurities?
Who’ll count the days till you are 21?
Then 22,
And maybe 23.


Lou,

I very much appreciate this poem as opposed to a blog post. I wish these sort of things had come a month ago.

Before I say another word, I hope that you do not think you tyrannized over me or that you’re incapable of loving in the way I loved you. I realize you didn’t say it (you never say it), but something tells me you feel that way.

It is raw and reading it was heartbreaking. I cannot sit and write the way you did right now, I’m tapped dry. There’s just a big void where you and that exquisite pain lived. I must say, in order to let you know what I’m thinking, that to me your other writings are contrived after being subjected to your “process” of veiling. But this one, this one was real. Painfully real to me. I just felt it all – reading that, I felt it all, and now it’s left me.

I had no idea I meant much to you until it was too late.

Lou, my Lu-lu that I got to see from time to time made me so happy. But the problem was that that man (the thoughtful, we-can-kick-life’s-ass-together man) and another man both wanted me. And I only wanted one.

The fact that I can’t be with that you, the one I felt that day, the one that came through your collarbones and settled in my chest, is killing me. That’s why you bring me down, to use your words.

Cat Stevens and I are leaving today, a day early, going to visit Libby. I can’t stay here anymore; too much of you here right now.

Please let me know when you’re back in town, I would love to see you and have all those things to give you.

Love,
P-lady.

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