While packing for a change of address one might run across many things not seen in a decade or more. It's not totally unexpected but interesting that Linda, it seems, has saved every correspondence I've ever sent her. During our last move I was called to sort through a bedroom junk drawer to separate the wheat and chaff and within that mass was a particular card that I recalled the moment I noticed its dragon and wizard adorned cover.
It was written on a lovely autumn afternoon shortly after we'd been intimate for a second time, weeks if not a couple months after we'd started dating. (Our first sleepover had been marred by my afterward having a dream about a large snake the size of a fire hose, resulting in my chasing Linda from a sound sleep and backing her into a corner of the bed while protecting her from the intruder; so there was a short recess between carnal adventures.) This new experience was wonderful, and included a fabulous conversation between bouts of sweaty aerobics.
We talked about everything new lovers do, which direction the toilet paper should roll off its holder, how much to tip a lousy waiter, walking: fun, or not fun, and toward the end of the night, Jane Austen, breathtaking or soul sucking. In that last segment I learned that Linda had never enjoyed the wondrous world of fantasy in any form, and I decided to enlighten her as quickly as possible, for her own good. It was particularly important since I still played rpg's two days a week and had a library full of witches and warlocks and the goblins that loved them.
I left her townhouse that morning and scurried to work for a short, obnoxious day, but returned well before she'd expected to be home. On her patio table I left one of my favorite books that might be entertaining to a fantasy virgin, "The Books of the Great Alta" by Jane Yolen, along with a single red rose and the aforementioned card, within which I'd written a pair of poems. Upon reflection I do recognize that I would have made as many points by scripting a single poem, an admission that you may agree to once you've seen the contents. But I must say it fascinates me how little my style has changed in 22 years, from the verbiage and rhythm I use to the unholy way I ruin the romance with a burst of guffaw, like any good male might.
Below you'll find the essence of my ability to woo, the "ink" of my romantic "ink"linations, my near complete inability to say "I love you" without adding a "ba-dum bum" afterward.
Her skin, the breath of velveteen
her voice unheard, her nerves unseen
a light caressing touch, her gift,
a fire in disguise
Upon the verge of creeping dawn
the walls were moved, our lines redrawn;
as whispers of emotion set alight
her angel eyes
Her movement; like a kitten's purr,
a smooth and patient voyageur
affection shared with every breath
a question, every glance
And in the end our rest short lived,
our soft goodbyes evocative,
my all too seldom smile would hint
the night's significance
Once the mush was off my chest
my thoughts were turned, my pen would jest
before I made this sonnet into
"Bad Poems Reference Book"
Wherein "she liked me or did not"
was query I could answer naught
The burning question? Could the girl
consume what I could cook?
This last ode was followed by an invitation to dine at my place that evening, within a room's length of that in which she'd been attacked by an almost a dragon and I had saved her in an almost St. George-like way. Luckily, while she truly does lack a sense of humor, the Burma Shave notice brought back memories of being on a road trip with her parents and that amused her so I was safe by proxy, or something of that ilk. Also luckily, she's stayed with me, as you can imagine my style of wooing doesn't win many prizes... so to speak.