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words; a gift

I thought of you, given to me, bound to surreal chivalry. 
I took you out of your context, off your stage and demanded you in my presence. 

Oh such a shaby presence. I tear up to describe it. I think of a movie with a well to do man and a store clerk and how she serves him stale wine. 

I dreamt of you again. Young you. You were splayed out on the grass smiling. I told you how my friend emulated your underbite when we were young. She looked so much like you at times. Fresh faced; she adored you, as I did. 

I just wrote to you. I said " whatever you do do it carefully". For I imagine you a stoic, careful, brooding gent who takes a mate carefully and kindly and bestows upon them all the riches and kindness you keep. Like the man in the movie. In reality I have no idea how you are. Are you funny? Are you stern? Would you scorn someone like myself for troubles that play upon the psyche?

I don't talk like this. I laugh with my sister every night. Her birthday a day after yours. I thought I could give you up. Whatever way you sway, I fan the palm fronds your way. 


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