Changing My Mind

Dear Joy,

I love you, too. I always have.
From the moment I saw you.

Remember? I stared. I couldn’t play anymore.
I couldn’t think. “I just had to tell you that.”

Who was this woman standing in the crowd?
I walked away frozen in time.

She stayed. My wife. Wannabe wife.
She chose me, and I couldn’t escape.

Like you, I could not escape the control.

We are old, and I can’t write
Poetic letters projecting pain.

I am sorry you felt that way.
I am sorry you were hurt.
I am sorry your mountain of baggage
from birth kept us apart.

We are one in the afterlife.
I am the one you love.

Yours eternally,

Her Husband

Yes, that was an interesting poetic prompt. Write a letter to yourself at 3 am when your muse is the right guy who came along at exactly the wrong time. Then again, exactly the right time in so many ways. He was the catalyst, and now he is my muse. So, really, what would he say – realistically? Let’s try this again.

Joy,

Thank you for not contacting me. I appreciate that you have left me alone, though it does bother me a little that you still think you love me. I mean, come on… that’s scary. So, I’d appreciate it even more if you would at least TRY to move forward. Find someone else, please. You’re a beautiful, talented woman. What are you doing alone pining over me? Please move on, sweet Joy. You were good. It was just bad timing. It’s just not what I needed at that time, so no offense. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt you. I mean that. I don’t want to lead you on. Please move on.

Sincerely,

Her Husband

Then… I’d be tempted to write back, acknowledging that I was hung up on him periodically over the past 3 decades. I laugh at myself in retrospect. So silly of me to remain hopeful. But I did for far too long.

No, I wouldn’t write back. I’d write poetry, but I wouldn’t write back. Why poetry? Because I’m a poet. Because I love words. Because I explore emotions. Because I am experiencing being human.

Then… oh, then… my creative mind would go into all sorts of movie plots. Scenes I’d play for the screen, which never make it to the page as good as they were in my mind.

And finally… I’d go to bed because I have a job. Like right now. The end.

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