(posted just because I felt like writing a prose poem today)
I finished the letter last week. It took two months before I believed in it. It said, there is a field in the distance, a place with wet blades of grass convincing the earth to tilt and blow itself against the sun.
Let it taste green.
Actually, I started the letter thirty-two years ago, but never let on. Once I found a piece of it stuffed inside a window sill. That was 1986. It kept the rain from seeping through ill-fitted edges of glass. Surprisingly, there was a lot of talk about green, wet fields that far back. I considered leaving it wedged between the brick and wood. If I pulled it free, the glass might have fallen out. It might have lost its flavor. But that didn’t happen.
Have you kept your fingernails short and manicured?
I thought of you at the barbershop, sitting in the red and white chair. The barber couldn’t stop talking. It was a good time to listen. It’s always a good time for listeners. My entire thought had the scent of 4711 mixed with talcum powder. It’s still 1986.
I traveled north, toward winter.
Don’t worry about global warming, or the occasional dead whale for that matter. Let heat and death pile up until they drink each other. I never really gave a damn how short your fingernails were except that night driving along 101 when the Santa Ana hit. I wanted slick blades of grass to race from my tongue and bump into your lips, but every word came out a wasteland, fogging the windows, blurring what little there was to see.
I still nibble from that desert once in a while.
I don’t believe in words anymore. After all, it’s the 21st century and green pastures are so far away they’re merely pin-points mixed into the air, floating like whispers too warm to last. That’s it. I’ve tasted your whisper and mailed the last letter this morning. Just keep listening. I know you’re out there…
I dream your signs into stories.
I decide the color their eyes take on.
(c) Tovli 2014