Flying Blind

Dear John,

I can't read this letter to you this time. (which leaves me concerned for the future of our relationship--what else will I start hiding from you?)

We're moving in together in a matter of weeks. I consider this to be my last move, at least the last until we buy another house, together. But, to be honest with myself, I planned on never moving in with someone until I had the promise of lifelong commitment from him. Not an engagement ring, as I'm too much of a feminist to want that (and I think they're rather tacky), but a promise. A plan. And being that I'm not the first woman you've lived with and you've never told me otherwise, I believe this is just a "test" for you, to see if you'll keep loving me.

I'm afraid that you won't.

Love, jane

Grown-up

Dear Jane,

I've known you since we were middle school, I used to make fun of how cute you were to all of my friends, I'm even pretty sure that some of my friends even liked you.

You only grew more beautiful as we grew older, I grew into manhood and by some grace of God an irrational Womanizer or at least that's the reputation I cultivated. I tried to grow up, and eventually reformed myself into the person my parents can be proud off. I hoped you'd be proud of me, but you barely noticed the boy that grew into the man.

You were known as the girl with the poor taste in guys, we even made fun of your last boyfriend, how if sharing a table with him and a piece of dry toast, how the dry toast would be more interesting. We could see why he was with you, but what was your excuse?

The truth is that thinking of you in the middle of a hectic work day makes me smile. What hurts is that you only come to me when you want something from me. That makes me sad. When you complain how their are no good guys left, well, that makes me want to gouge your eyes out....apparently their utility is wasted on you.

Sadly, I know that I'll always be languishing in the friend zone, not out of choice, but because I know your type far too well, and I'm not willing to compromise my awakened soul and become the morons that you tend to be attracted to.

I hope you change, but I know you won't. I'll always love a part of you, unfortunately, you'll never get to be loved completely and that is your loss.

John

Beach House

Dear _____,

I want deep, irrational love.

Wallpaper

Dear John,

I don't know why I have the incapacity to show unsolicited affection. You probably think I'm a frigid heartless shell, but really I just wanted to hold your hand at the cinema tonight. I kept thinking about it through the whole of the film. I am actually really romantic.

In my best efforts to conceal my overly romantic and whimsical tendencies, I act completely the opposite. Cold and locked away somewhere. And it's only when I actually like someone that I become incapacitated. I think it comes out of the fear of being seen as too keen, too emotional, too easy.

You kissed me all through the night on Friday and tonight, I wanted to kiss you all the same. I wanted to put my hands at the edges of your collarbone, the spot where it meets your chest, and kiss you long and slow with eyes closed but not all the way. I wanted to knot my arms and legs around your arms and legs. I wanted to touch my eyelashes to yours (my mom used to call them 'camel kisses'). I wanted to grab you by the neck and press my nose against your cheek.

Instead, I formed sentences that bored even my own self. I am really sorry for that.

Well here it is, John, I hope you give me a third chance. I'll make it up to you. I think you are really special.

Deserted

Dear John,

One day you're hot, the next you're cold

one day you leave me in despair, the next you cover me up with gold

you say I'm yours with all your might

but that's just another saying of some kind

you like to see me dance around the room

covering my body with the silky sheets of our bedroom

we smoke and and you play with my hair

we zip a bottle of wild turkey

and I remain bare

on the floor helplessly looking at you

but you're not there to the rescue.

You fool, my fool...

You choke me and leave me stupid inner scars

for I daydream of you

and you daydream of streetcars

the world is nothing but a memory you always say

and that our love making will be knocking in the doorway

of the sweet time flown

like an old record of chet baker s trumpet moan

you left to wander out into the memory

leaving nothing but a creamy shirt and a fantasy

I sometimes wear that piece of cloth

thinking of the boy who left me for the world.