letter to the only man i'll ever love

Misty May,

all my days are becoming a blur.

I could cry to you if I saw you, 

so I end up not making a stir.

Yesterday, I tried to write about things 

other than my pain.

Well, I cannot shed my self-importance, it seems, 

so here I am, writing to you again. 

It is easiest to be busy at home, 

So if you're silent,

I understand.

I hope when you're back in Shillong, 

We can chatter as much as we can.

I found Godard in a bookstore the other day,

and Mrs Plath sleeping beside him, and well,

        You've never been here

        But I find you in all the pockets, 

        spaces, corners, and things.

I miss your show and tells - 

No one here to tell me about Kate in detail.

My conversations since our last meeting have been boring - 

no one's curious, nothing important to say.

Everyone is still so awfully void of interests.

I asked my date what his favourite movie is    

        He proclaimed        with pride        (how awful)

        that it is "obviously" 'Fast and Furious.'

No one to look at to share in the agony -

If you were there,

If only then, Misty May,

You would have healed at least half of me.

Who would I talk to about the beauty of films?

To both admire and criticise the musings of Lynch?

No man I've met, so far, has been as engrossed in English lit.

        And what is so hard about reading?

        Why is it so rare?

        Why is every man so boring, wretched, and bland?

Well, we both know, 

Well-read men are hard to find.

Well, no,         

Say it isn't so,        

say they will come in time.

Until then,

I have you - my fervent listener

Diligent reader of my poetry.

And I can write to you with love,

without worrying that you won't understand how I feel.

Well, then, there it is,

me missing your company.

Thanking the stars for sending one of them

so graciously

to me.