If I had a stronger voice and more nimble guitar fingers, this might be a song. I would write it on the back of the crossword puzzle (from last week, Wednesday) and play it for you cross-legged in bed after many Gin and Tonics. But I don’t, and I haven’t and so, instead, this is a letter. It would be easier if it were a song though, less straight forward, you’d be taken in by the chorus and only after careful consideration and unraveling, grasp my actual intent. But, this is a letter.
You know, in high school we had to practice writing letters. I grew up in a hippie community and I can just imagine that the English teachers were envisioning a second generation of letter writing protesters. Maybe they were sure the future head of Amnesty International was somewhere in the room. Anyhow, those teachers would be agast and what I’ve called a letter. I have not stated my intent in my introductory paragraph.
The intent of this letter is to tell you the following:
I have stitched my heart back together using mediocre thread and the most delicate of thimbles. And riyou while whispering (sweet) nothings in my ear and using the most ornate of scalpels, has broken the flesh above my ribcage. Undetured by blood or gore, you continued. You paused when you hit rib and I gasped wondering how Adam must have felt. You paused to kiss my earlobe while your persistent fingers separated bone and flesh. Holding my heart with a puzzled look on your face I laughed, I hadn’t known it was in there either.
Also, I am headstrong and independent. I leave wet towels on the bed and return text messages hours after they were sent. I have spent too many nights in the beds of strangers to appreciate the familiarity of a lover who knows my body.
All I’m saying is :
This won’t be easy.