Dear Boy,

If we are not in Texas, I don’t know where we are.
All of the license plates speed by so fast I can’t get a great look at them,
So I suppose you could be right.

But all of my souvenirs and the peeling sunburn on the back of my neck tell me we have been quietly touring Texas with each other for a long while now.
The mail has already come, or I would steal the contents of somebody’s letterbox to check the address on each envelope, just to be sure.

You say in a few months we cannot be in Texas because you will be somewhere else much greener and more beautiful than my eyes (like Ireland or Scotland)
But I think you underestimate the power Texas has to allow you to be in two places at once.

I know such things are impossible,
                Trust me, I’ve pulled out so many maps and globes (trying to make it more a matter of geography than history or chemistry)
                                And it defies all logic.

But how else could it be that I once found myself in Texas with you at the exact moment you found yourself not in Texas with me?
                Inexplicable, such a thing is.
                Explain it, if you please.
                                Explain why we cannot be in Texas while you are away.

You will find me under our favorite umbrella
somewhere in the lone star state you’d never be able to pinpoint on a map)
Until you admit that we are totally and completely in Texas,
                 That Texas is what you find with me. (as much as you wish you didn’t)
And, (most importantly)
                That someday you plan on making Texas (with me of course),
                for that is the only thing that requires you to be all in one place at the right time.

The other definitions, my Texas, have no boundaries.
I’ll be waiting.


Texas,

Girl

You carry strands of her hair in your pocket
I know these things
And when you miss her you string them through your fingers
Playing a song that twists my world like aluminum
Only because I wish I was beautiful enough
To be missed like that
To the point where just hearing my voice would be enough to stuff pipecleaners down everyone else's throats
And shut yourself into a book full of inside jokes and drink samples only we know about
So the only sound would be our breathing
As you hugged the phone closer to your ear
Wishing my words were more than just syllables smashed between a page of our brilliant business ideas and the thoughts of your synapses
Leaving you wond'ring as the connection collapses
Why you can't tell her

We spat watermelon seeds across the sidewalk
And I know that secretly we both wished that beautiful things could grow from cement
We would've weaved the vine into my hair, because green is your favorite texture
And you've never been able to run your fingers through my eyes the way you can this mane
Love
Sometimes
I took a pocket knife and cut the skin from tomatoes
Because seeing something raw and untouched like that made me wish I could peel your thoughts away just as easily
But none of my can openers worked the way they promised they would
So it's up to you to open your cans of worms, I suppose
Dump them in the dirt of my mind
I promise beautiful things grow here
Somewhere
It's just that you haven't planted any kisses in a while
And I'm waiting for the rain before I invite you to do something rash and wonderful like that
Can you believe I snapped the handle off my ***** today
The ground was just so difficult
I couldn't make room for the new thoughts I'd like to grow
Or even succeed in throwing out the dreams hanging from dead cherry blossoms in the yard
Well, the second is not really because of my *****, I have spares
But must I be distracted by your beautiful eyes glancing through the peepholes in my fence as I work
You have so many beautiful things to tend to in your own yard, love
Make a book of poetry about them
And send it to me when you get lonely for feedback or compliments

Can I tell you a secret nobody knows
I hate the part where I must follow the trail of realities to the back door where my dog is chained to meet me
Once again, abandoning my attempts to grow beautiful things from this paper
For you

So I planted a flower garden, just like I always wanted darling
And I’ve sat in it every day since
Talking myself up to the white roses and making them blush because they know that they aren’t really the company I’d like to be keeping
Not really, anyway
And I feel rather terrible about it because I speak as if I’ve wallpapered the world with my words
But it’s just my own skull and your thoughts, I suppose
And I think they see right through me
Oh, they can see all my thoughts, all right
And I wish I resembled sterling silver, fixing all my failings as I go- so none could ever know all those mistakes
No one can judge a piece of duct tape-

I planted a flower garden, just like I always wanted darling
And I’ve done my best not to peek over the courtyard walls
Just to see if you’re finally coming to greet me like a stranger
But I never let my eyes wander farther than the second cobblestoned row from the top
Just to be proud of my ability not to think on you
I shouldn’t feel quite so terrible about those white roses knowing ‘cause deep down, somewhere in that same place where my love for dancing and ketchup and all of those other terrible things are, I think white roses have finally taken root as well
But it- isn’t my fault
I don’t think
Oh, but now my memory is a continuous roll of clear scotch tape that I run my fingers over always, trying to find the beginning so I can break off the pieces so nothing blends and examine them more carefully to the end
But I can’t find that teeny, tiny ridge that will show me how this all began
Do you remember- can white roses turn brown?
-I thought not
Oh, you always knew what to say but never quite how to say it
I’d take your double-edged words and be grateful for them now
Just to know if my favorite color turned brown
If my favorite thing about me will never be found

So I planted a flower garden, just like I always wanted darling
And I water it whenever I think on three-fourths of my favorite things
They don’t know your name or the name of my love
Because I empty the bitter tears concerning those things in places I never visit anymore
-The idea of producing one-fourth sour-faced and wrinkly roses makes me squirm-
I wonder
If someone gave you the stem of a daisy could you dip it in ink and draw the face of your favorite anything
I thought not
I forgot (oh, see how I am forgetting things) that you don’t have any favorite things
Dash it all (to pieces)!
I doubt that I was ever your favorite, not to say I was the least favorite
But all of this is beginning to make more sense now, I think
But, back to the most important thing
The white roses
They’re lost in that place full of things I’ve learned to despise
Or perhaps just things I’ve lost a liking for
Oh, how I despise you
Is that why I can’t find you (or the white roses)
Anywhere