Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part XX. [email: 12:17am, December 26th, 2015]

 

One Last Try

Patrick Dominguez

to Maria Coryaté

 

Hey.

Stuffs good.  Hanging out, X-mas Eve— thinking of you, apparently.  I typed up this poem, and this’ll be my last try.  I’m getting over you, without hearing from you, but, babe, short and sweet and with closure— that’s how nice people do it.  From here on, I’m trying to move on.  But I gotta give you this last try.

Stuff’s good.  Substitute teaching next semester; grad classes; lots a’ skateboarding— damn, I look and feel good.  You wanna meet me in Brazil this summer, see the Olympics?  Necesito una transistadora de Portuguesa.  That Would be super hot.  Think about it…

I find it pretty damn comical when people use words like fragrance and musk, but scent is a powerful turn on, especially for women.  I guess this is general knowledge, but pheromones express one’s genetic structure.  When women are attracted to how someone smells, they’re unconsciously recognizing genes that are way different.  You just smell way better to me than any other woman I’ve met.

I guess that’s the real reason I still think about you, two-and-a-half years after leaving the Institut.  Take this with a grain of sand, but I’ve recently realized that pheromones are what make truest love possible.  I’m not saying there is true love, but there is obviously less true love, so then more true love, and hence truest love, and that’s a scent.

I still hear voices in my head, a fair amount: never malignant, often judgmental, always people I’m acquainted with, no one imaginary.  Fine by me, I’m never lonely.  I hear your voice, sometimes— I call it the Maria voice.  Not much, though, anymore.  Which is saddening.  I guess I’m saying my side hasn’t been as one-sided as your side.

Sure wish I was with you, Maria.  I assume girls like you come around once in a lifetime, so I’ll be old and fat before I meet someone I like as much as you, but I’m content with that.  Cause now I won’t be content without that.

Is what you want a simple life, a quiet suburban head-shrink?  I guess I couldn’t give you that.  I’m supposed to avoid stress, too—  which is why I take the bus, now, instead of driving through traffic— but I need surprise, and drama, and chaos, I need vibrant, life-filled big cities.  And if you want sophistication and vividness and gorgeous complication, world-travels and challenges and moments of supra-comfort, you should be with me, cause that’s my life and I want you in it.  But there’s calm and quite, too, but I have to look for it, make that happen in the moment, cause it’s not just waiting for me out there in the street.  In the mornings I sit and listen to the birds; in the evenings I sit and listen to someone I care about.

Don’t be a dork with your life, babe.  Figure out what you want, and have that.  Don’t make your life decisions based on what is most convenient, most comfortable, easiest.  Don’t be like that. 

Are you just settling?  Settling for the next smart and also nice person to come along?  Don’t settle, live a life with me that’s beautiful and complicated– as beautiful and complicated as we are.  I don’t settle.  I know what I want, and I try for it, no matter how it hurts.  Figure out what you want, and have that.  Let’s be sexy as dirt, together, babe, meet me in Brazil.  Think about it all Spring. 

Did you save ‘um babe..  I think you did.  You really should reread ‘um, before you decide.

Maria, you’re a banana split, you’re a golden antique Persian rug, you’re a brand new Super-Soaker 250 water gun, you’re a squeaky, yellow rubber duck.  And you’re as damaged as I am, which I’m not even gonna look for again.

Save my letters, babe, show ‘um to your grandkids, whomever’s they are.  My grandmother kept both sets of hers in a green shoebox tied-up with string in her closet.

Does he at least make you laugh, like we used to laugh?  Maria-babe, I have never been as serious as I am right now.  If you’re ever dissatisfied, if you’re ever ready for an epic-love… write me a letter, someday.   I will cross the world for you. 

        Love Patrick.

 

 

Damnit, Jesus

 

Damnit, Jesus,

I’ve been trying to convince myself    

I’m over that girl, but here it is,

Christmas Eve, and I can’t stop

thinking of her.

 

What would you do, Hesus,

turn water into wine till she’s off your mind?

walk up oceans and rivers to her town? maybe

shoot lightning out your fingertips at her boyfriend

she’s in love with by now?  That wouldn’t help, Jesus.

 

Maybe you would rent a circus and

perform it on her front lawn, strap yourself in

to the aerial wire and swing on the high trapeze till

she notices you?  I might, but I’d probably

have to swing a long-ass time on that damn trapeze.

 

Damnit, Jesus,

maybe I’ll just write her from far away,

because she’s unforgettable,

give her space and time, hope she doesn’t give

her life away before she falls in love with me, instead.

 

 

 

more Letters to Maria Coryaté

be sure to surf through this Wed. for the grand conclusion

— Will Maria write back?

— Will Patrick lose hope?

 

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