Dec 2020
Dearest Britni,
I was warmed by your thermal tub, the belly of your indiscretions and the way you held those mule-hearts
in plastic jars beneath the cupboard where your favorite cups and coins were kept. The magic beat of your fingertips made my skin jump crazy out of my shirt and pants. I wonder if the turnover has always been this way for you, meaning to say, when the trips always ended did you take back the second pillow into the other room, where your ivory curtains opened, and did you feel the need to lock the door to your bedroom.
The word, 'house guest' implies less visitation privileges than actually took place. I believe it was more of an involved visit. There were certainly visitation privileges but there was also visitation writ. I had to keep my jeans clean. There were no shoes allowed in the bed. And extracurricular activities were kept to their time tables-- that is to stay that spontaneity occurred only when it fit into the time table. I was never much for making you lunch in the morning. It has always been difficult for me to think of the meals before they happened, though I knew what was in every drawer, every closet, every cabinet. The insides and outs of a decade of dreams.
In short time I became mesmerized with the perfect patterns in your arms and on your legs. I could crook my head in a way to look at the sunset from under your arm or stand on a chair to look down at the top of your head. And then one day you told me I was weird.
This time I wanted to be fulfilled. I did not want to miss a thing. I made sure to slide my fingers in between your toes, I squeezed the bottoms of your feet with the bottoms of my feet. There are many recitals, many performances, and even more personal encounters that cannot be recalled to mind, but I am sure they happened. If I had the opportunity I would attempt to pick your nose again. Something I did every chance I had though you abhorred it. To lick the side of your face, the bottom of your chin, the interior of your armpit, the lengths of your legs, and the rims of your lips-- I lived our life to the fullest.
All interactions were encouraged. We played in sunlight, in nightlight, during day showers, and ate by the seaside. We traveled to four states, two lakes, and two oceans. We drove in excess of 20,000 miles, received fifty-seven parking tickets, five speeding tickets, thirty-five thousand two hundred eighty four compliments, fifty-two salutations, fifteen, "you're an adorable couple," three hundred complimentary access, two free tickets to a museum exhibition, took over one hundred fifty flights between the two of us, and received your father's permission. We slept in showers, swam in baths, and drank from swimming pools. We shared the bathroom, the bed, and the kitchen sink. I memorized how many times you rolled over when sleeping, and you told me what I talked about in my sleep. I knew the five places you lived at and the four places you wanted to. We danced in nightclubs, in bars, in schoolyards, in back seats and bedrooms, and ballrooms. There were fifteen black tie events, one wedding, and over two hundred concerts. I wrote over fifty thousand poems made over three hundred paintings, and took somewhere around twenty-eight thousand pictures. I once took you to breakfast every morning for a week and dinner every night. I bought you one hundred twenty six cups of coffee, fifty-two cocktails, and one Shirley Temple. I only had to help you change clothes thrice, but I helped you undress over a thousand. I always remembered to lift up you hair if I helped you put on a jacket, and never made you walk on the street side.
There were over 2,000 bands and artists I introduced you too. You taught me about fashion, about photography, about being a good person. We sang in the shower, sang in the car, whispered before falling asleep. I sent you dozens of flowers and you watered them all.
In my favorite yellow chair I do not have any regrets or any wants. I fulfilled a life time in two years. I was an upstanding gentleman, always. And then out of the blue you didn't want me to touch you anymore. One time in an airport in DC we ran 48 terminals to see each other again. You taught me not to be afraid of flying, that it's important to be myself. And when it ended the first time I wrote you two letters a day for three months.
Tomorrow when I wake up I will make the bed, put the music on, smoke a cigarette, then take a shower. Afterwards I will get dressed, grab my belongings and go get four shots of espresso like I have been doing every day for the past five years. Everything will be the same. At the end of the day, after work, after listening to a plethora of music, talking to a plethora of people, I will not talk to you. After two years two years and 2,163 phone calls, I will not talk to you for two days in a row. I will lay in my bed and count the mews, but I miss the weight on the mattress, the heat of your whole, the temperature of your voice, and the redolence of your perfume, but I will have no regrets when I rollover thrice, to the right, to the left, and to the right.
I was warmed by your thermal tub, the belly of your indiscretions and the way you held those mule-hearts
in plastic jars beneath the cupboard where your favorite cups and coins were kept. The magic beat of your fingertips made my skin jump crazy out of my shirt and pants. I wonder if the turnover has always been this way for you, meaning to say, when the trips always ended did you take back the second pillow into the other room, where your ivory curtains opened, and did you feel the need to lock the door to your bedroom.
The word, 'house guest' implies less visitation privileges than actually took place. I believe it was more of an involved visit. There were certainly visitation privileges but there was also visitation writ. I had to keep my jeans clean. There were no shoes allowed in the bed. And extracurricular activities were kept to their time tables-- that is to stay that spontaneity occurred only when it fit into the time table. I was never much for making you lunch in the morning. It has always been difficult for me to think of the meals before they happened, though I knew what was in every drawer, every closet, every cabinet. The insides and outs of a decade of dreams.
In short time I became mesmerized with the perfect patterns in your arms and on your legs. I could crook my head in a way to look at the sunset from under your arm or stand on a chair to look down at the top of your head. And then one day you told me I was weird.
This time I wanted to be fulfilled. I did not want to miss a thing. I made sure to slide my fingers in between your toes, I squeezed the bottoms of your feet with the bottoms of my feet. There are many recitals, many performances, and even more personal encounters that cannot be recalled to mind, but I am sure they happened. If I had the opportunity I would attempt to pick your nose again. Something I did every chance I had though you abhorred it. To lick the side of your face, the bottom of your chin, the interior of your armpit, the lengths of your legs, and the rims of your lips-- I lived our life to the fullest.
All interactions were encouraged. We played in sunlight, in nightlight, during day showers, and ate by the seaside. We traveled to four states, two lakes, and two oceans. We drove in excess of 20,000 miles, received fifty-seven parking tickets, five speeding tickets, thirty-five thousand two hundred eighty four compliments, fifty-two salutations, fifteen, "you're an adorable couple," three hundred complimentary access, two free tickets to a museum exhibition, took over one hundred fifty flights between the two of us, and received your father's permission. We slept in showers, swam in baths, and drank from swimming pools. We shared the bathroom, the bed, and the kitchen sink. I memorized how many times you rolled over when sleeping, and you told me what I talked about in my sleep. I knew the five places you lived at and the four places you wanted to. We danced in nightclubs, in bars, in schoolyards, in back seats and bedrooms, and ballrooms. There were fifteen black tie events, one wedding, and over two hundred concerts. I wrote over fifty thousand poems made over three hundred paintings, and took somewhere around twenty-eight thousand pictures. I once took you to breakfast every morning for a week and dinner every night. I bought you one hundred twenty six cups of coffee, fifty-two cocktails, and one Shirley Temple. I only had to help you change clothes thrice, but I helped you undress over a thousand. I always remembered to lift up you hair if I helped you put on a jacket, and never made you walk on the street side.
There were over 2,000 bands and artists I introduced you too. You taught me about fashion, about photography, about being a good person. We sang in the shower, sang in the car, whispered before falling asleep. I sent you dozens of flowers and you watered them all.
In my favorite yellow chair I do not have any regrets or any wants. I fulfilled a life time in two years. I was an upstanding gentleman, always. And then out of the blue you didn't want me to touch you anymore. One time in an airport in DC we ran 48 terminals to see each other again. You taught me not to be afraid of flying, that it's important to be myself. And when it ended the first time I wrote you two letters a day for three months.
Tomorrow when I wake up I will make the bed, put the music on, smoke a cigarette, then take a shower. Afterwards I will get dressed, grab my belongings and go get four shots of espresso like I have been doing every day for the past five years. Everything will be the same. At the end of the day, after work, after listening to a plethora of music, talking to a plethora of people, I will not talk to you. After two years two years and 2,163 phone calls, I will not talk to you for two days in a row. I will lay in my bed and count the mews, but I miss the weight on the mattress, the heat of your whole, the temperature of your voice, and the redolence of your perfume, but I will have no regrets when I rollover thrice, to the right, to the left, and to the right.
A letter written to a love of my life, written 10 months after lasting seeing one another, but still speaking by phone, the thoughts and imaginations were running rampant.
