This letter is to you, maybe standing in front of my favourite bookstore, leafing through the pages of a book I haven’t found yet, by an author I will maybe fall in love with.
This letter is to you, maybe sitting at a cafe, (not by a window seat, because people walking by distract you) maybe drinking tea, maybe contemplating a cigarette.
To you, who will maybe make me write bad poetry about how you’re the ice in my coke and the punchline to my joke.
To you, who will maybe be the reason I write copious prose about the way you smell, that delicious earthy tang that never fails to get me high. Your tan lines, the hair that falls into your eyes that I feel like running my fingers through EVERY SINGLE TIME I see it. The lines on your palm, that will melt into mine, in an abundance of sweat and heat, to create something that resembles everything that is right with the world, everything that spells wonderful and breathtaking and happy.
To you, the wise guy, who’ll maybe make a dirty joke every time I crib to you how my term papers are so long and hard. Who’ll maybe laugh at the usually very bad, sometimes genius, often dirty jokes I make. Maybe you’ll never understand why I love e. e. cummings so much, but will pretend to be converted when I tell you “i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart).”
To you, who will maybe pull my hair every time I correct your grammar and then turn around and correct mine (or maybe you’ll be like the guys in the books and movies who’ll kiss me just to shut me up. You could. I wouldn't mind).
To you, who’ll maybe say, “Chup kor. Shala aantel” when I talk about Pinter’s dramatic pauses or the poetry in Tolkien’s prose.
To you, who’ll maybe teach me to drive, to build a bookcase, to fix a leak (I already know how to change a light bulb).
To you, who’ll maybe chase me to the airport with security behind you, screaming, “Don’t get on the plane!” (I won’t get on the plane)
To you, who’ll maybe be six feet one, who’ll maybe dwarf me (of course you’ll dwarf me, I’m tiny), and you’ll have abs that make you look photoshopped.
You will maybe come with the key to unlock a heart long afraid to feel.
Maybe, my maybe, dearest maybe, you will be the reason I start trusting in maybes.
Did you settle for someone less?
Who didn't write you bad poetry, about your hair and your smell and your sweat and your jokes?
Who doesn't get your jokes, who doesn't correct your grammar, who doesn't say pretentious things?
Did you stop at comfortable, and not wildly exciting, who makes you feel like there’s too little to touch, and yet too much to feel?
Maybe you’re just standing in front of my favourite bookstore, leafing through the pages of a book I haven’t found yet, by an author I will maybe fall in love with.
Or maybe you’re sitting in a cafe, (not by a window seat, because people walking by distract you) maybe drinking tea, maybe contemplating a cigarette, maybe waiting for your maybe to walk in, with hair held up by a pencil, and a book that you haven’t found yet, by an author you will fall in love with.