Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.


This is for you. You who demand I complete every sentence and make me wonder how I deserve you. A candle left burning all through the night, musicals wound up in my head, and seals and sun and winter walking with snapps in your nalgene and two hands in your pocket. This is for you, I promise, not because I have to but because everything about you makes me want to. Because you are every shade of ardor and heightened palpitation, and when you aren’t there a stick breaks and I cave in a fraction until you’re there to fold it back where it should be.

This is for you because depending on you is okay, and perfect, and fine, and wonderful, and delightful, and changing and beginning to addict me. This is for you because of Boston, sailing, Italian, chai, stir-fry, chicken parmesan, the Patriots, the Count, the green ranger, Darth Vader, duct tape on your carpet, hookah smoke, Lolita, and the allure of Love Actually. This is for you because you make me so tenderly hopeful, because you are wonderful.