a letter to sylvia

That night I began to recognize bottles of booze by the shapes of their containers. Herradurra, Knob Creek, Woodford Reserve, Grey Goose. I could pick out the broad shouldered glass, the big hips. I would know that slender waist anywhere. That night my consumption took on a personified, whimsical characteristic. In my mind I danced with the most curvaceous of beauties. Those who were there already and those who walked in late.

I'm pretty sure that we simultaneously experienced the feeling of longing for some sort of removed perspective. I know what it's like to have impossible possibilities. Although you'd think I'd be inclined to do so, it's funny, I blame you for very little.

I think if we had the chance to discuss it now, there would be some discrepancy as to where my hand was in relation to your thigh. What it was your eyes said. If you could have any superpower, what would it be, you asked. Or did I say that?

They played that old record of that band as if they were reading my mind, as if they could feel me awaiting the return of fabric and words. The ability to seduce with syllables. I patiently waited for you to explain the other sources of sadness.

Later I heard you wetting tissue after tissue on the other side of the door. Supine, your back pressed into the sheets I washed that day. The sheets that were overdue to be laundered, saturated, leaked on, fucked upon. The ones I used as covers and resisted the tremor, the spasmic but controlled shaking of sobs. When I finished my drink I went in there. Stripped off my clothes two items at a time, the underwear with the pants, the bra with the shirt. The socks. I got in next to you, molded my body to the back of yours and decided that I never wanted to write you birthday letters.