12/8/10

There are Two of us, and Not one is You
By Kalyn Partain


Two years ago I wrote you a letter,
a letter about my feelings
about you about your lack.
I never got to send the letter;
it had been addressed,
stamped and ready,
the Pregnant envelope, that is,
with your name, your street.
And my fingerprints throughout.

I wrote this letter for your eyes,
for your heart.
It dripped with angst
an inky flow of expression.
I lost the letter.

One year ago I lost the letter I wrote to you.
The letter that spoke of love,
and of hate,
about philosophy about Eggs.
It got lost in the drawer of the desk in my corner,
the one full of Birthdary cards
I sent to the trash.

The letter I wrote to you
for you for you for you.
It sat in its envelope,
Huffing and Puffing and
dripping its angst to the others.

The envelope had a stamp,
two, if you count
three lines, four lines,
expressing its Ownership.
It smelled like roses, like me.
Its invisible lip prints
waited to meet yours -- anxious.
I saw it everyday, waiting,
nagging to be sent.

For six months it glared,
it shouted,
it pushed and pushed.
I Pushed, too.

I pushed the letter through the
crack at the top of the
third, bottom, drawer
on the left of my desk,
cackling all the time at
how I Pushed it --you--
out of my sight.

Three months ago I decided I would send the letter.
I would send the letter to a boy
in a faraway place,
who had found something new
something worse
someone new to write him letters.

The drawer Pulled Out easily,
my hands Slipped through
mountains of stiff paper
and parchment -- I cut my
hand on a card.
Alas! the letter was gone.
In a fit Nine months prior I
had emptied the drawer.
I emptied the drawer
with a coldness, a silence, in my heart.

The letter went into the garbage.
Two years ago I wrote you a letter.
Two years ago I wrote you a letter.
It was simple;
It was true.
There are Two of us, and
Not one of them is You.


- - -
I am a 22 year old biochemistry/anthropology student who has no idea what she is doing. I also like octopuses.