Writing to you, my Sweet, allows me to give what I have available at the moment it comes into my possession. You reading me lets you invite me in when you are ready or willing, possibly both. I can store succulent treasure for you without the least consideration of freezer burn or apathy. You are here when I want you, yearning and prepared. I am yours for the taking in the classroom, the bedroom, or even in your bath. I can whisper or shout to you, rant or tell jokes at you. You can embrace or ignore me, introduce me to friends or keep me your own personal province. We are intimates because I bare my soul to you and you take me into yours.
Recommend your assets.
Did you dream?
Sleep the sleep of faultless souls?
Or twist the sheets
as in that Gilbert & Sullivan treatment?
Are night time wrestlings an indication
of decadent daytime activity?
Or is it all simply a matter of happenstance?
Possibly something I ate, thought, wished for?
I think to myself,
I should not have gotten into that unmade bed,
should have made it up; the bed and my mind,
should have straighten out the crumpled mass
of discarded dreams from yesterday and started fresh
But instead I climbed in with it all tumbled and tossed,
lumpy and coarse, no smooth sailing in this tangled sea.
What time I would have saved by leveling
the playing field and plumping the pillows.
All is not lost, there is always tonight.
Sweet dreams straight ahead
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault