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Dear idiot,
Ok, look, you need to know something. It’s NOT my goddamn fault I’m writing this. It’s some kind of seriously screwed up hormones, I think, because this can’t possibly be my perfectly rational and sensible hand scrawling with wild abandon on a torn up sheet of notebook paper. Set it down to the late night and the drink and the insumnea... isomnia? What the hell. Anyway, I fucking love you, so don’t mention this tomorrow because I don’t want to know what you think.
Drunkenly yours,
...
Never mind. Scratch that whole last bit because I chickened out on giving you the note and fell asleep in my beer instead like the gluttonous addicted little freak that I am. I have given up on writing poetry, by the way. I didn’t want to get hurt by it.
What’s that you say? How can you get hurt by poetry? Well, honey, words are fickle things, you know. They’re almost (but not quite) as apt to dump me as you are. So I figured, girl, quit when you’re ahead, before the talent evaporates, because it’s better to write a few lines of something really good than a whole book full of rabbit puke. So here I am, left with a half-finished love letter and a really weird urge to just go ahead and write the damn rabbit-puke in spite of what anybody might say.
I think I’m rambling.
Yeah, I definitely am rambling. So please ignore all this (not that I’ll ever let you read this note, of course) and just pretend the world is still spinning merrily on its axis like it damn well should. Just because one of us is all off balance doesn’t mean we both have to be.
Sincerely,
...
Again, never mind. Ahem. I have a new sheet of paper. And a new outlook on life. You see, there was a very hot guy at the gym today, dear idiot, and I now have some brand-new fantasy fodder to get my mind of off YOU. Maybe I’ll even write him a poem, if I can work out my relationship with words a little better. You know, bring back all that roving, wandering, Emily-Dickinson-regurgitating madness I used to have. It was a beautiful thing, it really was! But it’s kind of messed up now...
...I think I have attachment issues with words. (And maybe a barf fetish? That’s twice I’ve mentioned it now). Really, we should see a relationship counselor. Me and words, that is.
I hate life sometimes.
In annoyance,
...
Well, LOL. (I never thought I’d actually write that, but it’s about the only suitably cheesy way to express myself at this point.) I am now on day four of my letter-writing marathon, the cute guy at the gym has disappeared, and I’m bent over my desk at work like a crack addict sneaking one more fix while the boss isn’t looking. Is it possible to get high on graphite, dear idiot? If it is I will happily put all my madness down to the detrimental effects of point seven pencil lead. I may anyway, but that would only weaken my case.
Today you invited me out for coffee, which was a little strange—and probably the only reason I haven’t given up on writing this (slacking considerations aside). We sat in a little café on 23rd Street, just a few stores down from the Moonstruck Chocolate shop, and watched the world swirl around outside our window. The people there are like the bits of glass inside a kaleidoscope, rattling around each other and casting rainbow shadows on the sidewalk. I bet you never thought of it like that, did you? Dear idiot, you were probably just thinking about the broken sidewalk outside and wondering if it would be fixed any time soon.
I’d like to think I’m wrong about that.
I’d like to think that you’re thinking what I’m thinking all the time, that your head is as full of delicious metaphors as mine is, but I doubt it. I’d like to think that your brain is grinding away to think of the perfect words to describe me, the perfect phrase to capture the way I smile. I know, I know—I’m vain and I want to be worshiped. Sue me. But so help me gawd! I only want to be worshiped by you.
Not even bothering to sign my name,
...
Today is a beautiful morning and you’re not here to see it. You are off in Japan, I think, considering that you greeted me with “moshi moshi!” instead of “hello” on the phone. It was two in the fucking morning, dear idiot, do you realize that? You called me at two a.m. for who-knows-why from Japan, and if you are feeling slighted that I didn’t even ask where you were in my sleepy haze, YOU DESERVE IT. It is not in my job description to take calls from chipper dumbasses at some horrendous hour of the night when the numbers on my alarm clock don’t even add up to four. You woke me from a wonderful dream. Even if you did apologize.
Hm.
If I were in Japan on business, I wonder if I would call “just to say hello”?
Hazily yours,
...
This is the LAST time I will write. I don’t have anything more to say to you or to myself, so from here on I’m putting down the pen. No more poetry. No more shitty maudlin love letters. I HEARD HER TALKING ABOUT THE STUFF YOU DO TOGETHER SO DON’T TRY TO DENY IT. THIS NONEXISTENT RELATIONSHIP IS FUCKING OVER. I HOPE YOU ARE HAPPY WITH YOUR STUPID PRADA PRINCESS AND HER 23-INCH WAIST. YOU DOUCHE.
Goodbye UN-dear idiot,
...
Damn. How am I supposed to stay angry at you when I get chocolates—the good kind, from Moonstruck—on the same day that I hear Pradagirl stomping down the halls calling you every unrepeatable name under the sun? I have never been so happy to hear someone insult you. I think I will write a poem about it.
Your still-secret admirer,
...
I wrote you something, (on a sticky note no less), dear idiot, so please read it. It has no title yet. But it’s going to take the place of my diary entry, because you are coming over—and poetry and I have patched up our relationship a bit. The words work now, as if you have brought them scuttling back into my life like the Pied Piper of Hamlin! I think we have a chance, you and I. So maybe... if everything goes as planned, you may actually read this note eventually.
Anyway:
A metronome of heartbeats
Slides past my ears, scales played
On shivering time
Waiting
And I watch the slender spears of light
Tracing numbers that mark your coming
I cling tight
To my lucky charm
Willing that today the clock will chime
In harmony with the door
And I, sprawled on the kitchen counter
Jot down these spindly observations
T minus fifteen minutes
Until I can stop writing
Dear idiot
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