Just to let you know: every day I fight the urge to call you and on the most part my better angels win. I have called and found the machine on, heard The Detective pick up the line, found you gone for the day. I've walked down the street and dialed the pay phone and hung up at the last minute, just like a school boy, my knees shaking, my heart in my throat, my breathing labored. Sometimes I get more winded from just the thought of talking you than I do from a full out walk up the hill. Just the idea of hearing your voice sends me into a panic. Not so much fear, but more a form of disquiet I feel up front about interupting your life and then being called on it.
As you put it to me one time in a letter, when I finally see you in the aisle of a supermarket someday, what will we find to talk about? Know that I won't be speechless because I couldn't think of a million and one things to share with you, but I'll be struck mute because of the high volume of frozen wordage stuck in my craw. A form of brain freeze. Verbage lock.
I will be walking up the block in a moment and passing up yet another opportunity to call you. There is an agreement of sorts that we made long ago, one that says that I must give you space because you need it for your fighting chance to work over there. There's also that Jay Leno line in my head, the one that says, "hey, have some self respect, a phone works two ways, and so does a relationship. What you have is a tragic story on your hands, not a friendship. Get over it".
And I do, until I pass a payphone with fifty cents in my pocket. Today I'll leave the change at home. I'd rather leave it all to chance. Maybe then when I see you I'll be able to find words on legs that are solid, not ones made of fleeting desires and old dreams.
Love, Your WHMB
As you put it to me one time in a letter, when I finally see you in the aisle of a supermarket someday, what will we find to talk about? Know that I won't be speechless because I couldn't think of a million and one things to share with you, but I'll be struck mute because of the high volume of frozen wordage stuck in my craw. A form of brain freeze. Verbage lock.
I will be walking up the block in a moment and passing up yet another opportunity to call you. There is an agreement of sorts that we made long ago, one that says that I must give you space because you need it for your fighting chance to work over there. There's also that Jay Leno line in my head, the one that says, "hey, have some self respect, a phone works two ways, and so does a relationship. What you have is a tragic story on your hands, not a friendship. Get over it".
And I do, until I pass a payphone with fifty cents in my pocket. Today I'll leave the change at home. I'd rather leave it all to chance. Maybe then when I see you I'll be able to find words on legs that are solid, not ones made of fleeting desires and old dreams.
Love, Your WHMB
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