A letter never sent.. Options

[andyisasian]

Dear --,

I began your letter at the stop sign on Third Street and lost it in a traffic jam on Hemming Way; you would've rolled your eyes at the name, so I tried to imagine you sitting beside me. That's what did it, of course--I had a perfectly good sentence and it went right out the window

with sentiment.

See there--I was trying to redeem myself by writing a poem, but apologetic prose doesn't like to share. I had grand illusions--something about a word on a breeze (how cliché) wandering past a car full of screaming children and a businesswoman on her phone. There were soccer stories, a brief pause for some striking observation, and then a tremendous ending in a field, or a grave, or your lips. (Probably your lips.) It was another perfect poem lived and never written. Speaking of

I've written you letters
on scraps of paper--
napkins, Sears receipts;
once I wrote on the back
of a manila folder,
and several times now
in the margins
of our favorite books.

This one had somewhere to go, but don't they all? The failure is mine, of course. I recalled the time you tied me to the bedpost and wrote words across my hips; the ink was so cold and your breath was so warm. I shivered as you blew across the letters, and you smiled--large eyes shadowed by the glare of a muted television. Sometimes I try to picture that smile. It's difficult out of context, but every now and then I convince myself of the memory, and the effort's almost worth it.

You wrote a poem once about my letters--not these letters (well, maybe these letters), the individual letters in individual words. There was a line

This D implies the bend in your shoulders
when you're pouring your coffee, selecting a tie,

(two lines, then). I read it over and over, reliving a moment when I bent past you early one morning and grabbed a tie that didn't match; it took you half a cup of coffee to notice, and I didn't believe you once you had. It was a silly argument, but I cherish the silly ones. I think I made it halfway through lunch before I finally broke down and left you a message. "Baby," I said, "baby, I'm sorry. I love you. You were right about the tie." I never wore that tie again--not even with the right shirt--but I still have it. I blush when I pass it on the rack.

But your poem--the one about the letters--I had it taped to my desk, to my journal--it's been in six different suitcases and kept pages in countless books; twice now I've ripped it up only to tape it back together, desperately, in place of tears. You'll never know, though--how close I keep your words (even the poor ones). I sometimes think I should have told you, but a torn poem in the middle of a million secrets seems a strange thing to regret.

This is why writers rarely make it far in love; we spend our time having sex with words, remembering moments better as we wrote them than we do as we lived them. We spend our break-ups in tragic sentimentality, inspired to write out of bitterness and neglect, motivated by self-loathing and an unforgiving ego. You and I--we wrote while we could, left in despair when the words ran out and replaced themselves with a comfortable silence.

We never worked well in comfort. Writers live better as they suffer.

Even so,

I wish you were here.

------------------------------------------------------------------
Dude, seriously. You can certainly post something you appreciate, but please don't credit them as your own (which is assumed unless you list a SOURCE).

SOURCE: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/47384148/

You've been warned for this already.

This post has been edited by Duchess of Dork: Apr 3 2007, 10:53 AM

[wishforhelsinki]

This is why writers rarely make it far in love; we spend our time having sex with words, remembering moments better as we wrote them than we do as we lived them. We spend our break-ups in tragic sentimentality, inspired to write out of bitterness and neglect, motivated by self-loathing and an unforgiving ego. You and I--we wrote while we could, left in despair when the words ran out and replaced themselves with a comfortable silence.

We never worked well in comfort. Writers live better as they suffer.

This really got me.

[andyisasian]

This really got me.

thanks, idk we really dont make it far in love, most of us, we're usaually deep within our words. making no time for the other person an when we do love another, we write indescriable words about them, we formulate this image of supreme beauty an majesticity, an in our mind they are that beautiful, to us, and sometimes that leads to words or regret an times of heartbreoken intamitcy. idk we the writers are sumthign magnificent to the soceity today that lack color, an beauty, we brign it back in our words of descriptions an imagtry. we make everythign seem so wonderful, just so other people can bring us down we write words that make them and their words worthless. :)

Omgosh, this almost made me cry. It's very good. You're very good with words. =]

aww i didnt want to get you on the virge of crying :/, but im really happy that you enjoyed it :))

Just lovely, I find a lot of truth in this. Good job.

its sumthign tht u gotta live by

Did you wan't criticism here? If so, it's a shame because you're not going to recieve any. Every word was meant; it wasn't repetive; you were clear; you were concise.

With this, to you all I can type is that I relate so well I nod my head and wish I could grant you the best.

actually u just wanted, a simple reply of everything tht was on your mind when you read my poem, all your thoughts, your emotions, just anythign you felt like saying ^.^

an your reply was perfect