Monday, April 16, 2007

To Catherine Three.


You neglect to write me, to return the words I send sprawling towards you. They eagerly await a response but I suppose I should take it in stride. I suppose I should consider those few brief moments we shared and my obvious distance, my eyes set on far off sights while yours were forward and focused. I have always been the same man, stuck inside a world of words trying desperately to make something besides what is made with pen and paper. I always want to push people into words, to make them write to me when they would rather speak, to make them read of me when they would rather touch. I thought, because of the intensity of your letter, that I had found someone, finally, who felt the same passion for this sort of expression as I. But, by your silence, I fear I was wrong.

Today, I climbed to the top of a tall building and I sat soaking in the first vibrant sun of the season. I read a book and listened to the sound of the wind blow by my ears, the sounds of the birds as they scattered across the sky- little black specks beaming against the bright blue. I squinted into the sun, my hand angled at my brow and I thought of things I'd like to say to you. I wished that I had whispered words into your ear after holding you so close beneath the stars. But, then, I cowered in fear. I was overwhelmed. I was indignant. And it wasn't until I stared, alone, up into that piercing sky that I realized the weight of what I had left behind. It sat stale in my memory as some distant dream I might have once dreamt about a beach and the moon and a lovely girl who took me in her arms. But, standing there, high above the ground, watching the world move around, oblivious to even the building on which I was perched, I felt a distance had been traversed. I was suddenly with you, beneath the gull-strewn sky- the sounds of squaking drowned out by our loud laughter. And the sun burned hotly on my head and it illuminated the light which burst out from inside you.

There, on that building, I felt more of an imbecile than I've ever felt. I descended the stairs with haste, skipping steps and nearly sliding down a whole flight. I held tightly to the railing and the bright white walls closed in on me. By the time I reached the bottom I was exhausted; sweat dripped down my face and I tasted it, salty, on my lips. As I paced the streets the light breeze cooled me and I considered my options. It might be nice to have a drink, to sit and sip and settle, to try to understand this sudden, screaming compulsion to run to this woman who I only know but a bit. It might be better to return to my hotel and write a letter which expresses all the things I have felt- the suddenness, the barely thought out and barely understood feelings. Or I could let it slide by, try to decipher it at a later date, when I'm not so attached.

But, I am not one to feel things and leave them unexpressed. Even as I write this I wonder what will become of it. Will it sit alone on the page, smushed between the other unrelated pages of this notebook which I only pick up randomly and when I am trying to work through some heavy emotion? Will I send it off to someone who will recieve it and be shocked, who will not understand what I am saying, what I am asking, because I also do not understand what I have said, what I have asked- if I have said or asked anything at all even!

I wonder what she is doing now, that beautiful Catherine. I am stricken with a bright image of her body outstreched on the roof of the same building I just came from. The light wind blowing her boundless blonde locks across her face. I can see her eyes fixed on the sky- following the birds in flight, the corners of her small, feminine mouth upturned into a simple smile. It baffles me to try to determine what she actually does with her days. She never even told me about a job but also- I never asked.

And now that I've gotten carried away speaking about you, my dear beautiful Catherine, I will close my eyes and send this letter without another thought.

Suddenly yours and always waiting,


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