Peanut Butter and Saltines

This is not her.

I went this way when you went that. You see it’s all the same to me, or so I want to believe. None of my friends will believe this shit I assure you, but I find myself once again in a professional limbo. They love me, I swear, or I wouldn’t say it in the first place.
The decision never gets easier. I walk around constantly in wet socks. I have been making footprints through your house. Your mind cannot begin to imagine. I have 15 feet of loving and a half-tied nitwit who wants nothing more than to sit in the corner of your bedroom as you drift off to sleep. I’m good for something, just not good enough for that. You think it’s a favor, and maybe in the “big scheme” it will be. Only time will tell. You’ve never wanted for anything, or so it seems. A family from Grosse Pointe, or one of the Pointes, automobile money to be sure. You drive a foreign car, a roadster of the cheapest sort, just to thumb your nose at them. They still love you. God and country can keep you together, and your house will smell of the sweetest potpourris sold at the most boring of shops.
I made my way upstream at half past midnight and looked in your window and you were asleep. Such peaceful sleep for so young, and at this hour when wolves silhouette themselves against the moon. A heart beats solo in the corner. I am making the crinoline under your skirt and it itches your sunburned legs like nothing since mosquitos in summer on a rainy night in Key West.
Speaking of Key West. I will be staying there for the summer on a friend’s couch. It’s a pullout and I will have to take my own pillow. I will lie naked, my body spilling out in the different directions – Atlantic, Pacific, Ursa Minor… He says that jobs are plentiful and the air is hot. My arthritic legs will weather well here. I know I never make any sense. You’ve said that more than once and so I will say it here just so everyone knows your thoughts.
Sooner or later there will be one million dollars in a safety deposit box and we will do the subterranean rescue. Jeremy and I are buying the Atlanta Braves you know. You thought it was all a hoax, but we’ve got the “silent partners” and the Series is ours.
I love the last time you spoke to me in whispers as we were naked on the floor and talking in secret tongues – both of us on our knees, yet you still sitting in my lap. All of that has changed now.
I do headstands on pillows made of Turkish wool, and you howl at male ballet dancers with cod pieces. They are cod pieces you know, and you are not so deep yourself.
I fixed your well that November when it froze over and you were happy to have the water again. I rewired your studio like it was your heart… you always loved that dad was an electrician – he can remove your shorts. I did a cartwheel when I first met you.
Tomorrow I am shaving it all off. The hairs, the nails, the hairs on my hobbit toes. I will be free. There will be truth for a while. I missed you most while you were up North. In that place. One of two that have ever elected socialist mayors. Strange in that way if you really think about it all.
All things become one, but I feel like nothing. Jeremy will write something soon to bring levity to this whole forum. But for now, I cannot figure out, in my heart of hearts, for who this love letter is intended.