Love Is Just Pen & Ink

Love Is Just Pen & Ink

Some actually receive the letters,
the promised confirmations.
And we’re always reminded
of the postal service’s inconsistencies,
The 1’s drawn too long in the zip code,
the 7’s lifted too soon.
“Ah, it’s Lindsey with an ‘e’…
It’s too bad, ya know,” he sighs.
“The note was pure honesty,
that’s all I really recall."

They appear complacent
and understanding,
their facades teeming
with ingenuousness.
But they are always more aware
than they let on.
Because it's that hope
that propels the one's
that actually are written.
It's that naivete
that fuels that babbling masturbation,
spilt upon those lines
late at night.

It's
the subconscious purpose.
It's
all that's left of romance.

And maybe she'll get that letter
one day.
When guilt has shadowed
my morns,
and longing diminished
my purpose.
After a disheartening phone call
from your mother.
After blacking out
at another wedding.
It's
your detox.
It's
your confessional.

And she'll toss it
in the box under her bed.
Throw it in with
all the others.
Returning
to her make-up and mirror,
she'll wonder what you're up to.
Imagining
how drunk you became
as you compiled.

And you'll walk it off.
At least till the next one comes along,
till you hear
your best friend's getting a divorce.
You'll keep your cool
till your sickly gay uncle finally passes.

Because that's the thing that makes sense.
We write
to see our imagined perceptions.
We lust
to keep the loneliness from hurting so much.
Lust
for the vantage of Tennessee Williams.
Lust
for a child's drawings.
Lust
for a dog's cherubic gray-scale complacency.

Because
love is
just pen & ink.