Spring Letters

i was married to sadness before i married your thoughts

do not fear the melancholy air or the ricochet of midnight reflections, they are my dark children

now i give you license to blunt their edges, ruffle their wit, walk them to open fields and return them to me in cascading autumnal rush

they were curbed to fit the cramped apartments of memory, set them loose and fling them with the free spirit of a bohemian

lose them in strange unfamiliar streets, drown them among the swarm of rushing headlights and the cut of white and blue twilight. tickle the bells on their toes

i was a mere trifle, you see. a little breathing substance with a lipstick-stained teacup and black stockings fettered on paper bag

i was a regular rip van winkle in a weather-beaten story

a sylvia plath in buttoned coats carrying her beautiful darkness in teeming indifferent places.

but darling, you never understood those many and complex things

you were all hot biscuits and quiet dinner at 5 p.m.,

you were old comfortable sweaters and pajamas tucked neatly in the closet while i am lost in a rugged quest of huckleberry fields and sun-sweet berries

there was fire in your hearth i had fire in my lungs

you tried. i saw the struggle in the narrow gap of your brows

but my dark children, they were meant for windblown solo flights and devastating splash-dunks off the beach

i know it will break your elegant, brittle, soft-shelled, ivory powder bones in the pebbly shoreline

it did. and i saw the same pale, washed delicate skin propel in the failing darkness

now he is gone

my own contrary.

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