Darling,

How beautiful this cup of coffee is,
made in New York. Back on the royal.
Crooked lines and traditional keeping
the faith this October. I'm watching
the year course through Scotland,
its alcohol and its boys.

To fill you in, potential moving city.
The perfect excuse for shame,
slapstick, lovely writing. I'll watch for
springtime. I've rambled long enough.

The idea of us living. Close. Together.
This city doesn't stand a chance.

This is going to be a good one.

This letter.
Your flight.
My birthday.
A whole year.
Postcards.
Scotland.

If I don’t make it home this summer, don’t bother sending a card.
See a good French film, blow the whole $50, and say hello to the kids.

My dearest,

I can already feel myself getting older. It’s not going to be filled with anything at all. Smokes in the box. It’s late and I’m still. I used the ole Royal, too afraid to try a poem. Two cent stamps and most of the cards are ugly but it’s modern art – what do you expect?

You are probably out or laying in Jimmy’s bed. That makes poetry sound like foreplay. You are probably getting more words. I’d rather be with you.

My point is that I am kind of dying. Currently waiting for the roads/highway. I am sitting next to two red suitcases, different shades of red. You can probably assume the rest. I’ll end this now. Being done with something is a nice feeling. The last from Texas. Last on the Royal. I hate them both.