Poland meets Croydon

Dear John,

Weeks and I know you entirely. You are the poster child for marijuana. You have weird hair and a completely disheveled wardrobe. I don’t understand most words you say. You work only to play. You have been at least an hour late for every one of our dates. But somehow, John, you possess so much more than any other John. You are proficient in showing your adoration. You shower me with seemingly ordinary gifts like a bag of fruit or a page ripped from an old book. You take me to your favorite grassy oasis rather than a pretentious restaurant. You live as though sunshine is consistently beaming upon you, and I yearn for your energy. If only I could apprehend my ambivalence, I would be yours wholly; but I’m distracted by the John who cannot extend his love beyond the ocean and the John who’s afraid to fight. I’m distracted by the John I think may be dead and the John I wish would wake up.