Sally thought she’d write a poem about her situation. The problem was she couldn’t exactly pin the “situation” down. What was it? Was she clinging too much? Did he not feel validated enough? That was his word: validated. She couldn’t put that word in a poem; it wasn’t her word and she hated it. What did he want from her? What did it mean? Valid meant true or sound, didn’t it? A valid argument. And valla-date?
Was that what stood between bitterness and hope? Why was it always her fault, what she was doing, or, she supposed, not doing.
My hope springs up like sparrows in the sky. . .
That was good. It was nice alliteration, too. She’d need a rhyming line next. Sky, by, high, lie. Had he lied to her? She wasn’t sure. He’d been away that weekend, a business trip, he’d said. But he could have taken her; he’d done it before. Why the secrecy?
Fly, sigh.
Until I think you hadn’t said goodbye.
Think is wrong. Wrong syllable count. Wrong meaning, really. With him she didn’t think. She just wanted. She wanted him physically; she wanted him around; she wanted him to love her. Sometimes he said he did.
But bitterness toward you makes me want to die.
That wasn’t it. It wasn’t bitterness, although maybe there was a touch of it because she was bitter about her insecure position. Who was she to him?
To me you’re everything a man could ever be.
God! That “ever” was a cheat—well it was only a draft. And “be” is an easy rhyme.
I hope and pray that you’ll come home to me. A thirteen-year-old’s sentiment!
I long for your mind, our sex, our harmony.
That’s better. It’s only a verse, though. She can’t think of a melody. And she needs more lines.
I do admire you, want you, love you. .. . what?? She needs another syllable there, the foot, as they say in poetry. What about his name? It’s one syllable. But a vacant syllable. Tim. Who would name a child Tim? “Hal” would be one syllable but it has some heft to it. Instead of your lover I remain your pal. Ha ha. Ha ha Hal.
But to Tim: I do admire you, want you, love you, Tim.
Finish the damn thing.
Without you I see my life grow dim. Grim, slim, trim, vim. Who uses that word, “vim?”
When you love back my heart is at its brim.
Whatever the hell that means.
As it is, I hover between bitterness and hope.
Wondering, hoping, walking this tightrope.
Shit.