write me like one of your fancy girls all glowing and sinning in my gown. write me a beautiful scene in an italian countryside with you and we're both just in the best of shape.
write me at night under the lamplight where you can barely make out the outline of my face, but you see the lamplight in my eyes and for once you wonder what's behind that twinkle.
oh but darling just write me in anger when i can't meet your needs and you blame yourself, throwing your possessions all about and tearing your clothes off ripping me apart asking why oh why not couldn't i have just been faithful? but you know she never burned me like you do. won't you write that.
don't you write me darling. don't you dare put us on a boat in the middle of a sea ready to capsize as the rogues pass, sloshing and tossing us about. don't you take me below deck and remind me that jesus h. christ is [where oh where don't we both know] ... and yet i've forgotten. it's been so long. i'm hardly adjusting to the altitude, you know. not to mention the wine.
won't you write me a philosoph- checking and correcting and spiritually connecting until i throw my manifesto into the fire place, and in your face, your blazing face, that dances as the flames charr and erase the passionate loss and cherubim embrace- doll, what does your skin feel like these days? oh lovely, write it for me. write it for me.
write me for it. right me for it.
i'd like to be erased, thus: know-it-all that i've become! unwittingly writing with my two left feet and my two left thumbs. [cough... sputter... shoulder glance.] i have wined and dined myself again, dear. no thanks to your writing.
it's just black now, and i've no idea what's to come.