~ two-bit poetry on a stick ~

My dearest Angela,

Yesterday I held you in my arms once again. In fact there were two of you. A letter so very concerned about me and a cheeky postcard that will one day have a place for you in it.

Know that your letters are treasured. They are a great comfort, they wrap around my heavy heart, brand themselves and there they stay.

For whatever reason, you are in my life I am grateful. If we were to feed each other’s souls forever as we do now I would count myself blessed. We will be one of history’s famous (platonic) couples: Samson and Delilah. Mr Darcy and Elizabeth. Ren and Stimpy. Spongebob and Patrick. Aimee and Jaguar. French and Saunders. Snow white and the 7 drawfs. There you go, I can’t even spell dwarfs. Or is it dwarves?

I am also very proud that you are once again attempting NaNo. My only advice is to keep yourself hydrated. Lots of OJ and lots of love from your J.

Whenever I picture you, you are walking down the streets of Boston, face tilted upwards, basking in the warmth of the sun and hands clasped behind your back. You smile. It is as though you carry a delectable secret and that secret is this: That one day your words will make hordes love you as I do. And that one day your face will be alongside several others (on this postcard I know you took your time picking for me, I thank you). This postcard accusing you of being gay. If it were up to me, I’d put you in between Emily and Edna. Then I’d follow, then Walt would be next to me. The palpable is in its place, as Walt would say.

Life is as it has been. This paradise as you call it, is slowly choking me. M tries to understand but sometimes I think she knows it’s over. I choose to be quiet. Reclusive, and sometimes I wake up and struggle to (sleep) breathe. Sometimes I cry for my mother. Because of my social ineptness, it was always easier to retreat inside. Maybe I just don’t like who I’ve grown up to be. Maybe I worry too much about pleasing my parents.

Most of all, I worry that in the end, I will not have anything to say. That fear is real, and it will follow me wherever I choose to run to next.

And even then, I hope we will still be writing letters.

Dreams haunted by Ariel*,
XKrissiX

PS Sylvia Plath's *poetry anthology and not the little mermaid. Although I like that the little mermaid is a red head. ;o)

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