The Noresoup Jukebox

Dear Misty May, I met mordechai today He had chai, said he was fine I thought he might be beyond okay the sun danced on his shoulders leaves, green and dancing behind him it felt like you were the warmth from the window as bittersweet as it is strange the golden leaves that brought me life well they all fell the other day the branches are bare and feeble alas, most things do not stay though I wish you would and I wish you could promise that we'll always be this way young, a little terrified, incessantly trying, keeping our sadness at bay by watching movies, reading literature your new interest in communism my old sadness dying a little Misty May, there is no wake for me because you paint blue the skies that were gray Shillong must be cold but you are the sun with you around, good things always find their way.

When summer came, I met a man who loved me. So much so that I doubted him. When summer ended, I learned I was right. He made me realise the constraints of womanhood, the barricades of my being. He said he would make me his wife and I told him I'm meant to be someone greater. Another autumn, another man. Now he loved me for more concrete things - intellect, spirit and wit - full in me, lost in him. Not love but admiration and thinkers are not fond of the pedestal. What a fool he was! He thought my wit and politeness meant I had affections for him. When winter came, a creep crept in. There were deers in the park and the predator standing beside me. This man had the wit that once was missing and yet lacking in all other aspects. No chivalry, no respect, money and connections to yield as much power. He gave me his jacket and wanted my dignity in return. What an awful thing to desire! Then in the spring, I gave up all hope and read books and sang. I died a small death in the north side ...