When I write to you, Hello,it’s marked with swollen anticipation,and I wonderabout your interpretation:did I sound too curt?too friendly? too tender?too insecure?And when I write to you, How are you,I dread the response, Fine and you?For it means you don’t much care,or I hardly cross your mind.With you I always hopefor meandering words that spell you miss me,or how happy you areto hear from me.Cascading wordseager and breathless with longing,as if a torch had been setalight.
I take too long to decidewhether to sign my nameat the end with, Love,or, Miss you,or, I am holding you in my heart.No. Too quaint. Too sentimental.Just my initial, then. No.Leave it blank. Empty.
These pings and emailsand texts and chats,their rules confuse me,when all I wantis to be old fashionedwith you.
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