I'm not romantic. I don't write love letters.
I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU.
You're the whole goddamn package, baby.
You're a Siren. I'm shipwrecked and sunburned
on that island and screaming curses at a galaxy
of unlucky stars. I wish I'd snatched your brilliant
ass up when you were twelve, when you truly
were a small town Texas tabula rasa.
But I love your scrawls. I love the gorgeous
red ink blots that make you who you are.
I am not romantic. I like you a whole helluva
lot as a friend but that's it, baby doll.
This is purely platonic. This is great minds
thinking alike in Sinhalese. This is Skee-Ball.
I am NOT tangled up in blue. Goddamn it.
I DREAMED ABOUT YOU LAST NIGHT.
You showed me everything for free and we
were alone in our closet and the world
was locked out and leaving us the fuck alone
and we were LAUGHING and LOVING
and it was 1970something and the Rolling Stones
were singing "She Smiled Sweetly"
and the kisses were MAGIC, on the fucking MARK,
and every duck was a winner.
Fried Chicken & Mint Juleps,
Misti Rainwater-Lites has several books for sale at amazon.com. In Connubial Blistered you will find full-color photographs of Misti nekkid except for a garland of fake skulls and a shitload of Halloween make-up. Misti is proud of herself for not running away to Fiji this week.