Dearest C,

Am I being too dramatic my dear? Perhaps,
but how shall I put it— your letter knocked

the shit out of me— and now my fingers have
uncrossed— all anticipation drained and the day

my dear, shows off its awful spread of light—
Really, I don't want a fight dearest C, it's just that for me

it was such a letdown— felt so fucked so deflated left here
drifting into a new month of bland weather with no hope of having

your hair fanned about pillow, without these little
intimacies— your fork cracking crème brulee

me picking crumb from upper left lip my hand early
a.m. asleep on your hip yet here we are dear darling so much

crush of wave ocean cascade between us
on dank day with me thinking,