In a Bluebird toffee tin Are a hundred letters – Most of them doodle-stamped and Delivered by hand. Unlike the letters I sent to you They do not smell of spritzed cologne, (A trick that I learned from Grease) They are not messy Or tea stained, But perfect powder blue And allowing for small extravagances – The Cursive of the Obsessive, Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts.
I pick one out at random, A casually cruel one sent from Rome – I imagine you blinking on a balcony With dazzles on your collarbone, A teeny tiny sugarless coffee At your side, And a pen tapping your knee.
“I’m not a **** at all –“ you wrote, It’s only that you are gregarious In the most DISGUSTING way. That’s your problem not mine - Your optimism won’t catch you. Cynicism won’t catch you either, But it has the courtesy not to throw you. I’m stopping now, By the time you get this I’ll be back home. What pointlessness we endure for one other. I miss you, as you say, ‘ever so’ – Bedtime here is a source of misery.”
And then you signed your name, Tiny, Small, Impossibly graceful, Just like yourself.