Tell me everything.
Pour the whiskey before we sit down.
Sit across the table from me, it’s the decent thing to do, I am taken.
I wrote to you on a midnight when I wasn’t.
I am, as ever, taken with you.
I agree with the sentiment of your parenthetical statement
where you hesitantly admitted ([I] was the one that got away)
(You were, too.)
The world suffers from a lack of our could-have-been love letters.
I pity the historians,
What will they have to turn to?
I’m in love again. You missed the window of opportunity. It is a kind of love that doesn’t involve many love letters. A love with a language barrier. I am a woman built of words. It’s confusing, how it worked out.
It never would have worked out between us
but we would have written a lot of beautiful things.
We would have been insufferable.
We’d have proposed marriage to each other a thousand times,
Every block of Brooklyn cement
would have known the kiss of our bended knees.
We’d always be dreaming up more romance.
We’d never have time for the actual thing.
You kept a chocolate easter bunny that I gave you,
tucked away in your freezer,
for three years after I moved away.
I kept your name frozen in my sighs for about as long.
But in the end, I am searching for the kind of man
who would eat the chocolate