Letters to Maria Coryaté: Part X. [postmark: April 16th, 2015]



It is unconventional, when one writes someone love-letters, to tell the person one cares about that one does not care for her.

Maria, you give me nothing of yourself.  How am I to keep this up for you and  for us when I haven’t the tracest grasp of your circumstance, your condition, your life?

You know me well, babe, cause I’ve been talking to you for three years, now (at, towards).  It was wonderful for like, four months after I left the Institut; we laughed, we chatted, we shot-the-shit.  “Sure,” you said, “if we’re ever back in the same place.  You’re expealidocious.”  Then, when I couldn’t get in touch with you after I left for Miami, I panicked.  No one’s perfect, especially not us.  But I did ease up.  I have been giving you room.   

Then came my worst year since my breakdown.  Ugh, changing meds sucks.  I was like crazily hypersexual, which really doesn’t turn pretty women on.  Most my friends ditched me— can’t believe they weren’t ever my friends, but they ditched me none-the-less.  But the worst part was hearing so little from you.  My emails weren’t different, I was very careful about that.  But all I got from you were excuses.  I guess back in Montreal’s when you started up with Him.  I recognize you were trying to protect my emotions or som’it, but babe, that really sucked for me.  I was being suave and delightful and funny, and all you came back to me with was condescending sorries, and this-is-why’s.

Now I got to change my meds, again.  I’ve developed a twitch in my neck, and that’s bad.  So I’m gonna go through that hell, once more.  Don’t abandon me, babe.

Maria, I don’t love you.

But it is troublesome to me, how easily I could.

email me,



If I once had my Green Guitar

No body love me but my green guitar.

I no want my green guitar.

Now, my green guitar no want me.

Maybe that she be a come see me plea.

Maybe I’ll wake up.  Again?

Waking up to no her no fun.

Again, then again, then always again, (heh, clever)

if I just once could hear her say,

I green guitar.



more Letters to Maria Coryate



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